


The Great Watford Bake Off

by sconelover, Unenthusiastic_mermaid



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Banter, Cake Week, Flirting, Fluff, Innuen-dough, Inspired by The Great British Bake Off, Literally just some good wholesome fun, M/M, Ship Wars, Simon Snow is a Baker, Soggy Bottoms, The Great British Bake Off References, The Great Watford Bake Off, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, Weird Thirst Tweets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unenthusiastic_mermaid/pseuds/Unenthusiastic_mermaid
Summary: Introducing an all-new cast of judges, hosts, and a dozen bakers. Magic is in the air as the Great Watford Bake Off begins a new season beneath the iconic white tent!On hiatus until late January or February, sorry! ❤️
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 108
Kudos: 95





	1. Cake Week

**Author's Note:**

> We are so excited to share this with you! 💖 Come say hi to us on tumblr:  
> [subpar-selkie](https://subpar-selkie.tumblr.com/)  
> [sconelover](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/scone-lover)
> 
> Huge thanks to [tbazzsnow (CSCB)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) and [ashspren ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren)for beta reading!
> 
> On your marks...  
> Get set...  
> Bake! ❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve new bakers enter the tent for cake week, with a heartwarming signature, a tricky technical, and whimsical Signature Bakes. Will it be a piece of cake, or will the 'whisks' be too high...?
> 
> [Click here for the chapter 1 Tumblr post! ](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/628178083820732416/presenting-the-great-watford-bake-off-episode-1)(Art and transcriptions of the tweets)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one's related to each other in this fic and everyone's ages are all over the place.
> 
> Thanks to [ashspren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) for helping me write the Tweets!

**EPISODE ONE: CAKE WEEK**

_[Bird’s-eye view of a large park. The CAMERA zooms in on TWO WOMEN in full battle gear.]_

FIONA: Sword?

EBB: Check.

FIONA: Bow and arrow?

EBB: Check.

FIONA: Super sexy battle armour?

EBB: Check.

FIONA: All right, Ebb, it’s now or never… CHARGE!

_[They run across the grass, swords out, then screech to a halt.]_

FIONA: What’s this?

EBB: Oh, no.

FIONA: Where’s the fight? I’m ready!

EBB: Well, you see… the thing is…

FIONA: What?

EBB: Well, er…

FIONA: Spit it out!

EBB: I thought they said _fight_ tent. Not… not _white_ tent.

FIONA: Ah.

EBB: So…

FIONA: So this is… a baking show?

EBB: Seems like it, yeah.

FIONA: Damn it. Do _you_ know the difference between Swiss and Italian meringue?

EBB: Not a clue.

FIONA: Cool. We’ll be great at this. _[Sheaths her sword]_ Well, not to worry, I have an alternate script. _[She rolls out a metres-long scroll.]_ “In case Ebb was horrendously wrong, as usual.”

EBB: If it’s usual, you’d’ve thought to fact-check me.

FIONA: Touché.

_[They stare at the WHITE TENT for a moment.]_

EBB: Aren’t we missing something?

FIONA: I don’t know, this just says to show up and “be ourselves!” 

EBB: I fear for whoever has to interact with you. _[Glances at the paper]_ Is that all?

_[Another moment of silence, then the camera pans to a lineup of TWELVE BAKERS]_

BOTH: Ohhhh.

EBB: Welcome, everyone–

FIONA: To a brand-new season of…

BOTH: The Great Watford Bake Off!

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:00 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Agatha]

 **Caption:** Agatha lives on the coast and works as a vet. She loves French bakes, like meringues, tarts, and baguettes.

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:10 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Baz]

 **Caption:** Baz works in finance and can do numbers in a crunch. We hope he can also give the judges something delicious to munch!

* * *

**Present Day**

**Wednesday, September 2, 2020**

**Simon**

I’ve always kept lists in my head, but it’s gotten infinitely worse since Bake Off. Like my brain can’t let go of the notion that everything in life has to be neatly sectioned off and counted, or what’s the point to anything? Without lists, everyday activities would be just a shadow of what they _could_ be—productivity. The wonders.

So, as I stand here in my living room, very much not on camera or under time pressure, I’m running through a mental list. Blankets, water, phone chargers, extra chairs. The sofa cushions are fluffed, the snacks (the most important list items) are on the coffee table, and Channel 61 is queued up.

Only one thing is missing. (Okay, fine, snacks are the _second_ most important list item.) (I don’t say that lightly.)

“Baz!”

He was in the kitchen, but I can’t hear him anymore; maybe he went to the loo. “Baz?”

I finally haul my arse off the couch and find him leaning against the doorway of my bedroom, speaking on the phone and smiling at whatever the other person’s saying. “No, you still can’t tell anyone, Mordy.”

I hear Mordelia’s voice, high and squeaky through the small speaker. “Please? Please please please–”

“Absolutely not,” Baz says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got this week’s Star Baker trying to drag me to the living room.”

 _“What?!”_ Mordelia screeches. Baz winces and pulls the phone away from his ear. “Simon’s gonna win Star Baker?”

I laugh and grab Baz’s hand, doing as he suggested and dragging him to the couch. “You’ll have to watch and find out,” he says. “Talk to you later.”

“If you lied about this, I’m going to kill you.”

Baz just rolls his eyes and says goodbye again, then turns to me with an amused expression—probably because I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Excited? You look like a child on Christmas morning,” he says. 

I kiss him sweetly. He tastes like Jaffa Cakes. (Ever since The Jaffa Cake Disaster, he’s unexpectedly taken a liking to them. Especially since I made homemade ones today.)

“It’s even better. C’mon, everyone will be here soon.”

“What else is there to do?” 

“Tidy up, maybe. Take some photos for Instagram, now that we don’t have to live in secrecy anymore.”

“Do we have to live-Tweet this?” Baz asks, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

 _“I’m_ live-Tweeting it,” I respond. “Britain loves me.”

“You don’t know that yet,” Baz says, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe they did a bad editing job on you.”

“Nothing can reduce my natural charm.”

“Not even tripping and falling face first into your cake–”

“Shut up,” I laugh, face burning. No chance they edited that blunder out. “Just you wait,” I say, pointing to the TV. “I’ll be the sweetheart of this season. Like Selasi.”

 _“Selasi.”_ Baz performs an overdramatic swoon into my arms. “You wish, Snow. You. Wish.”

I catch him, then kiss him on the nose. Then on the mouth.

He leans in, and sometimes I can’t believe it. That I came out on the other end of Bake Off with not only the best friendships of my life, but the truest and deepest relationship I’ve ever had. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have hosted a party,” Baz murmurs, wrapping his arms around my neck.

“Why?”

“So we could see how it all began, just the two of us,” he says with a cheeky wink. “Me, you, soggy bottoms…”

“We met before that,” I say. “At auditions, remember?”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “I remember you riding up, _late,_ on your ridiculous yellow motorbike.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” I pout. “It’s butter yellow!”

“And that’s when I knew,” Baz says, staring dramatically off into the distance, “that my heart would be stolen by a man with marshmallows for brains. And that my love would always be unrequited—that I would always come second to his true love. Butter.”

I shove him and laugh. “You’re such a prick sometimes.”

“You’re not denying it,” he says.

The doorbell rings, and I walk over to get it, calling over my shoulder, “I’d be lying if I did.”

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@shepardfromomaha**

_02/09/2020, 7:30pm_

**Image:** [a selfie of seven bakers in a living room]

 **Caption:** Bake Off reunion watch party. There is an abundance of sugar. 🍰 🎉

* * *

**Bake Off, Week One**

**Friday, April 3, 2020**

**Simon** ****

The tent looks approachable on the telly. All friendly and cosy, jauntily perched in the middle of the park.

Not now. Now, it’s looming over me like some sort of haunted white castle filled with ominous pastel appliances. 

My hands are shaking. At this rate I’ll be covered in syrup and who knows what else by the end of the day. I’ll try to add my drizzle to the cake and _splat,_ it’ll end up all over me. 

On national television. _International_ television. Sod it all, my shirt’s wrinkled. We had a five a.m. wake up call, and I look like the bloke from that episode of Queer Eye. Couldn’t get my hair to lie flat.

“It’s going to rain,” Penny says, looking up. She shivers a bit, wrapping her coat more tightly around herself.

I sat next to her at dinner last night. She’s an adjunct professor of Medieval History at City University London. I went there. (I tell her that.) I hated history class. (I don’t tell her that.)

To say we all bonded quickly would be an understatement. It was _instant._ Because after three months holed up in my kitchen developing recipes, sworn to secrecy, I had finally met other people who deeply knew the particular struggle of trying to make a fucking _multicolored_ _3D sculpture_ out of bread.

I talked to everyone except one person.

“I think we can’t go in until they finish the interviews,” I say.

As if to confirm this, an official-looking person wearing all black comes around with an armful of umbrellas. “Umbrellas! Stay dry, you’ll be on camera soon enough.”

I can’t believe I’m really here.

It’s like being asked to play football in the World Cup when you’ve only ever played in a haphazardly organized adult recreation league on Wednesday nights. Sure, I can _bake,_ but this is something else.

That tent is _exclusive._ Only about a hundred contestants have ever been inside. (More people than that have been to outer space.) And I’m about to join their ranks.

It’s funny because it doesn’t even really feel like a competition. Not like the normal cooking shows, where the contestants barely stop short of murdering each other with kitchen knives. When we got off our respective trains and arrived at the hotel last night, we were given a warm welcome, ushered to dinner, and told that soon enough, we’d feel like a little family.

Penny’s glasses are fogging up, so she pushes them to the top of her head, blinking brown eyes at me. “Recognise anyone from your technical audition?”

I point at Baz.

My technical was a catastrophe. (I mean, I got in. But barely—whoever picked me was probably on a sugar high.) I’d auditioned in January. Low-stakes: you literally just bake a cake at home and bring it for a panel of judges to eat. But in the second round, they put you in a room with eleven other people and film you to make sure you can stand the pressure.

I was late. _So_ late. And soaking wet, because it was raining and I don’t have a car, just my Vespa. I walked in, smiled and said, “Hi, I’m here for the baking show” and everyone just stared at me.

I remember seeing _him_ for the first time. He was wearing a suit, of all things, and arching a critical eyebrow at me, as if thinking, _Who invited this idiot?_

He was handsome. Not conventionally handsome, not necessarily television-handsome—but interesting to look at. Someone who would capture viewers’ attention. I remember thinking that as a camera whirled around to train itself on his face.

I ended up at the station right behind him, and if anything, watching him bake just exacerbated my nerves. He had an agonizingly cool demeanor; even going into the challenge blind, everything was perfectly in its place, perfectly timed, and perfectly baked. I felt like a right berk, but as it turns out, we both ranked well in the end. His success from practice and precision. Mine from pure dumb luck, probably.

“Baz?” Penny says. “He looks a bit… uptight.”

“He was _precise,”_ I say. “Everything was under control.”

“You have to be, with baking,” she says.

“You don’t _have_ to,” I say, laughing a little.

She gives me a dry look. “Godspeed, Simon.”

Penny gets called for her interview, so I wander a bit. The grounds are absolutely gorgeous. They’ve moved locations, from Welford to Watford, and we’re surrounded by trees and wet leaves and a burbling stream. 

I was literally too embarrassed to talk to Baz last night at dinner. Couldn’t stop thinking about that judgmental eyebrow of his… and the look he gave me last night, slight disdain. As if I didn’t deserve to be here.

I’m not convinced he’s actually mean—they wouldn’t choose someone like that for the show—but I’m a little wary of him.

So I do the natural thing and walk over to him.

“Morning,” I say.

“Look at that, you’re on time.” His voice is silky smooth and kind of deep. He sounds a bit like Noel Fielding. (Looks a bit like him too, but with the stature of a beanpole. I wish Noel was here; it’d be almost unsettling to see them standing together.)

“Is that how you typically introduce yourself?”

“Right, where are my manners.” He laughs—even his laugh is controlled, contained, practiced—and offers his hand. He’s wearing a shirt with a tie. Who wears a tie to a baking competition? It has one of those fancy knots, too, because of course he can’t just settle for a normal knot. “Baz Grimm-Pitch.”

It sounds like a fairy tale villain’s name. 

I shake his hand. “Simon Snow.”

(I suppose my name sounds a bit whimsical, too; I never thought about it that way until now.)

I continue my meandering circle around the tent, and he falls into step beside me. (Well, not quite into step. His legs are absurdly long—I almost need to jog.) 

“I’ll be honest, I was surprised to see you here,” he says.

I scowl. Well, this just confirms his dickishness. “Really?”

The eyebrow makes another appearance. “At auditions, you were late, sopping wet, and you looked a _fright.”_

“I was hungover,” I say, and his eyes shift to twinkling amusement. 

“You _weren’t.”_

 _“–and_ I’d just gotten off a flight that morning at like, four am. I could barely remember how to make a sponge cake.”

“Not the ideal circumstances I’d have chosen for an audition.”

“What, really?” I ask innocently. “Starting off your Bake Off journey with absolute chaos _isn’t_ a good idea?” 

“At least you’re self-aware,” he says lightly, “of your status as a certified disaster.”

“You think you’re better,” I grumble, “just because you have, like, spreadsheets–”

“I do,” he answers, because of _course._ They’re probably colour-coded, too. “And I don’t _think_ I’m better, Snow, I _know.”_

I almost protest (or elbow him) before glancing at his face. A slight smirk, a raised eyebrow; he’s joking. (Maybe.) (Maybe he _does_ think he’s better than everyone else. Maybe he _is.)_

No one’s called me ‘Snow’ since school. 

I speak with a couple of the other contestants while we wait for the interviews to finish up. Trixie, a slight Asian woman with candy-floss pink hair and floral tattoos winding up her arms, and Agatha, a vet with a love for horseback riding and Highland cows. (I have to agree—Highland cows are fucking cute.)

Eventually, we’re all lined up for the opening shot. I put on my best camera-ready smile.

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:20 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Dev]

 **Caption:** Dev’s a bartender from Essex whose strengths lie in pastry. He uses Indian flavours to make his bakes tasty!

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:30 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Elspeth]

 **Caption:** Elspeth’s an interior designer who decorates her bakes with flair. She’s friendly enough, but watch out for the spider in her hair!

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:40 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Gareth]

 **Caption:** Gareth is a stay-at-home dad with an impressive collection of belts. He loves doing chocolate work, here’s hoping it won’t melt!

* * *

* * *

**Baz**

I’m staring at Simon’s back—broad shoulders, the apron looped around his freckled neck, close-cut bronze hair with a flop of curls over the top—when he suddenly ducks down.

I’ve been rereading my recipe; it’s helping to quell my nerves a bit. The ingredients were laid out long before our arrival, and it’s a chilly morning. The eggs feel like ice cubes, and I could build a house from these butter blocks.

Butter nestled between my hands—which, honestly, isn’t warming it up that much, just making me colder—I crane my neck to see what Simon’s doing. He tosses his butter from hand to hand, then merrily pops it into his proving drawer and turns up the temperature.

I suppose that’s one way to soften it up. I tuck my butter block into the hollow of my underarm. I feel like a moron, but needs must. Having my butter properly softened takes precedent over my dignity, apparently. 

The hosts walk in, followed by the judges, David Mage and Patricia, or Pat, Possibelf. David has an absurd handlebar mustache; it looks like an angry caterpillar on his face. (I imagine cake crumbs getting stuck in it and shudder.)

They spend a few minutes on off-camera introductions and some garb about the show—it’s disgustingly mushy, but kind of heartwarming, I suppose.

Making friends isn’t the biggest priority for me; it’s a competition, after all, and I’m here to win. If I happen to make some connections along the way, all the better. But I won’t let myself be distracted by anything personal. Baking comes first.

Introductions over, we jump into filming.

“Morning, bakers,” Ebb says. “Welcome to your very first day in the tent.”

“And ours as well, actually,” Fiona chuckles. 

“Right, not a single person here has a clue what they’re doing.”

“But hopefully you will for the next part.”

“Or we’re really in trouble,” Ebb quips.

“For your first ever Signature Challenge, the judges would love you to make a drizzle cake.”

“The operative word is drizzle.”

“No, the operative word is _moist,”_ Fiona says. “Ultimate moistness. The moistest cake you’ve ever had–”

“That’s enough of that word,” Ebb cuts in. “You’ve got two hours. On your marks…”

“Get set…”

“Bake!”

A thrill runs through me at those words—words I’ve only heard on television before. I turn on the oven and start gathering my ingredients, half-expecting to hear the music starting up. But of course, that’s added later—right now it’s just the clatter of utensils and the whir of mixers.

The air is thick and almost tense. Everyone’s quiet, focused.

That is, until I hear a very loud, “Oh, shit!” from in front of me. 

I hear the squeak of Simon’s proving drawer open.

Another curse muttered under his breath.

And the steady _drip drip_ of his completely melted butter onto the floor.

Simon throws his arms up and says, “Well, that’s off to a perfect start,” and soon the whole tent is laughing. Penny runs over with a towel to help clean up and fend off a curious Fiona, while Simon burns red as a tomato and stammers out a few more choice words.

Luckily, the back room is fully stocked, and someone runs out with fresh blocks of butter for him within moments. I smile inwardly when I notice him tuck them up under his armpits.

I didn’t expect the tent to be so chatty once the tension’s been broken—but everyone’s casually holding conversations while they bake. I end up speaking briefly with Dev about our dreadful attempts at celebratory bombes for dessert week (“No matter what I do, they end up looking like boobs.” “I hadn’t thought of that comparison, but now I won’t be able to unsee it.”)

A camera comes near, and my brain flashes to panic for half a second before I school my features into a pleasant smile.

“Baz,” Fiona says, leaning against my workstation. Ebb nicks a pistachio from the counter. “Bazzy.” 

“Tell us about your bake,” Pat says before I have a chance to snipe at Fiona about the nickname.

“This bake is inspired by _basbousa,”_ I tell them. “It’s an Egyptian semolina cake that’s served drenched in syrup and topped with nuts.”

“So your base is semolina?” Pat asks.

“It’s a mixture of that and regular flour,” I say, “so that I can get a more traditional cake-like rise on it. The cake itself is flavoured with tahini and honey, and I’ve added rosewater to the drizzle.”

“That’s intriguing,” David says. His mustache moves up and down when he speaks; it’s mesmerising, in a horrifying way. “It seems like quite a moist cake.”

“That’s the operative word, Davy!” Fiona nearly shouts.

I laugh. “It is. There’s yoghurt in the base, as well—it melts in the mouth.”

“Well, I for one have never had _basbousa._ I look forward to trying it,” Pat says. “Good luck.”

I’ve realised that recipes often go over well on this show when they have some sort of family meaning to the baker. So I’m taking the heritage angle. Not because I’m particularly in touch with my roots—I’m only a small part Egyptian, and I’ve never even been there—but because I can get away with some uniquely inspired flavours.

The batter complete, I line a round tin, pour it in, and start decorating the top with thinly sliced pistachios, arranging them in swirls to imitate blooming flowers. Since the cake is quite simple, I want the design to be intricate.

I signal for a camera person, slide the cake into the oven, then wait. And then, because I’m a fool who can’t contain my curiosity, I take a step forward.

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 12:50 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Minos]

 **Caption:** Minos is happily retired, but once sailed the seven seas in the Hellenic Navy. He’s come to Bake Off to delight our esteemed judges, Pat and Davy.

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:00 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Niall]

 **Caption:** Niall is from Dublin and practices law. His lovely confections may leave us all in awe!

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:10 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Penelope]

 **Caption:** Penelope is a professor of Medieval History whose cakes are quite inspired. With her flair for the dramatic, our judges’ tastebuds will never get tired!

* * *

**Simon**

_Put some of yourself into your bakes._ That was the most common advice I got for this show. The judges love it, the viewers love it—because in the end, the show’s as much about the bakers as it is about the cakes and pastries.

Some of myself. (I had the horrifying thought of a lock of my hair making its way into a croissant. Gave me stress dreams for days.)

And I thought, how much of myself can I really put into a simple drizzle cake? But I eventually settled on a sweet and slightly spiced almond and cherry cake with a tangy cherry drizzle. If I can’t put my DNA in the cake, might as well stuff it with my favourite food.

Baking isn’t easy in the tent. It’s distracting and everything’s in a different place than my kitchen at home.

Plus, the floor is wobbly. Like a fucking bouncy castle.

I’m chopping the cherries up finely when the hosts and judges come over to talk to me. I try my best not to stutter in front of the camera, but thirty seconds in I have to call for a bandage because I sliced my fucking finger open. (Of course. Of course I did.)

Guess I got a _part of myself_ in the cake after all—fucking _blood._ How’s that for DNA? 

“Supplemental iron for the recipe,” I joke at the camera. 

When I come back from a brief visit to the tent paramedic, finger wrapped in a bright pink bandage, I pass Baz’s station and he’s already watching me. Judgmentally. “It hasn’t even been an hour, and you’ve already managed to injure yourself,” he says.

“I have a special talent,” I deadpan, and he smiles. (He looks nice when he smiles. It transforms his whole face.)

He’s put his shoulder-length hair in a ponytail for the bake. It’s short but swings around when he moves. Inexplicably, I think about tugging it. And then tugging _him–_

 _Oh._ Oh, fuck. That line of thought is going nowhere. I swiftly banish it to the corner, nestled right among all the newfound useless facts in my brain about the chemistry of Genoise sponge cake and chocolate tempering methods. (Filed away—but it’s bound to resurface eventually.)

Luckily my blood didn’t _actually_ get into the cake batter. I double check, then roll the chopped cherries in flour and fold them in. 

I slide my cake into the oven. The heat that blasts out towards me explains why my face is so warm right now. That’s the only contributor. Obviously.

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:20 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Philippa]

 **Caption:** Philippa wanted to be a Broadway actress, but she just couldn’t get her start. Now, we think the judges will be very impressed with her pies and tarts!

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:30 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Shepard]

 **Caption:** Shepard is from Omaha, Nebraska, but he moved to London a few years ago to pursue his career in engineering. He’s looking to bring some of that classic Midwest American culture to Bake Off, so our judges will be cheering!

* * *

**Baz**

Judging is almost nothing like on television. Once we set our bakes at the ends of our benches, we’re banished to the green room while a cleaning crew sweeps through the tent. Then it takes the camera crew approximately half a lifetime to get close-up footage of our bakes.

But I’m smiling; I can’t stop. It feels odd to smile this much. The tops of my cheeks hurt. The green room is full of warm, hushed chatter—everyone’s happy, flushed with adrenaline at finally getting to bake in the tent, at finishing our first bake.

I’m not known for my kindness or my openness. At work, I’ve been nicknamed the vampire because I’m cold and cranky and always working late into the night. When you look at a high-rise office building and see lights on at midnight and think, _God, who’s that lunatic?_ Yeah, that's me.

But I’ve decided I like my fellow bakers. Even if I find it overwhelming to deal with all this agonizing friendliness, I feel a comfortable sort of familiarity with them. They’ve been through the same hell I’ve been through over the past couple months—attempting to make pies defy gravity and the like. 

“What are they even doing in there, re-baking everything?” Agatha says.

“Taste-testing,” Dev offers.

“Playing hacky-sack with our cakes,” I say. 

The crew calls us back in, and we’re instructed to stand behind our benches. I can see some of the other cakes, many of them beautiful, elegantly drizzled and topped with fruit or nuts. Since my station’s near the back, I can’t hear much of the judging. Just that Simon, who goes right before me, comes back with a big smile on his face.

And then I’m up. I’ve carried cakes across far larger distances than this, but the walk feels endless. The floor trembles uncertainly under my feet, like it’s not sure whether it wants to lay flat for this crucial moment.

David cuts a slice from the middle of my cake and splits it between himself and Pat. I’m barely breathing as I watch her chew thoughtfully.

“It’s good,” she says, and my muscles unwind. “Very moist.”

“Moist, you say?” Fiona asks. She leans over and pops a bite in her mouth. 

“The flavours are complex and interesting,” Pat says. “Sweet and a touch savoury. It’s different.”

“I quite like it,” David adds. “Well done.”

I remember to smile as I thank them and take my cake back to my station. Simon and Dev flash me excited looks and thumbs ups as I return, and a real smile eases its way across my face.

The judging finishes a bit anticlimactically, but the thrum inside me at a glowing review hasn’t diminished. We’re sent outside, into the misty April air, while the tent is prepared for the technical bake.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50298184336/in/dateposted-public/)

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* * *

**Baz**

When we reenter, a gingham cloth at my station obscures the ingredients I’m to bake with in a few minutes.

“Welcome to your first technical bake,” Fiona announces. “Scared?”

“Today’s gingham-clad secret challenge has been set by Pat,” Ebb says. “Any advice, Patty?”

“Follow the order,” Pat says simply.

I try not to let my absolute panic show on my face. I know how to bake. If I rely on my skills and practice, this will be a piece of cake. (Perhaps literally.)

“Short and sweet,” Fiona says. “Now, get out of here, you two. You’re banished.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands as the judges exit.

“What are they up to today, Fiona?” Ebb asks.

“Bikini car wash.”

“Ah. Perfect for this weather.”

“Exactly. Now,” Fiona says, turning back to us, “We’re very excited about this challenge. We’re excited to eat them, that is.”

“The judges would like you to make twelve Jaffa Cakes,” Ebb announces. “We’re looking for whipped, fatless sponges, orange jelly, and all of it slathered in chocolate.”

“Two hours. On your marks…”

“Get set–”

“Bake!”

Jaffa Cakes.

Fuck it all. I’m scared shitless. I keep my face neutral as I unveil my ingredients by pretending I’m in a disastrous client meeting. Can’t let it show. (Like Elsa— _don’t let them see._ Ah, the pitfalls of having younger siblings.)

I flip over the instructions sheet.

_Jaffa Cakes Technical_

_Recipe by Patricia Possibelf_

  * _Zest one orange._


  * _Make a jelly._


  * _Using 25g sugar, 25g flour, and 1 egg, make a sponge._


  * _Pour the sponge mixture into the bun tin and bake._


  * _Place a jelly disk onto each sponge._


  * _Cover with chocolate._


  * _Decorate with a classic criss-cross pattern._



I think I’ve eaten Jaffa Cakes once in my life, and I was approximately seven years old. All knowledge of Jaffa Cakes seems to have exited my brain in this moment of dire need. I stare at the instruction sheet mutely.

In front of me, Simon’s already gotten to work. He’s calmly zesting an orange and humming while he does it. 

_Make a jelly._ It’s vague as hell.

I seriously consider drawing a spreadsheet for myself on this page. It’s nonsensical, really— _make a sponge_ isn’t just making the sponge. Forget to sift the flour or whisk the eggs for too long and you’re fucked. I never have to remember this shit—that’s what spreadsheets are for.

I guess I’ll need hot water. I check my oven; it’s already heated to 175. All right. Jelly. I can do jelly. I start a pot of water. I grab an orange and zest it into a bowl.

I close my eyes, trying to summon up an image of a Jaffa Cake in my mind. The cake—it’s wider on one end than the other, though I can’t remember which. Thin layer of jelly, and then chocolate. Simple enough. And what’s this criss-cross pattern on top supposed to be?

It seems that, besides Simon bloody Snow, everyone else is just as lost as I am. I overhear Shepard, the American, telling the hosts that he’s never even _seen_ a Jaffa Cake, let alone eaten one.

At least I’ve had one. 

Sixteen years ago.

I make a simple orange jelly, tasting as I go—if I can’t get this perfectly right, it should at least be delicious—and put it in the fridge. 

Next, the sponge. I’ve no idea how tall these cakes should be. My seven year-old mouth doesn’t present an accurate size judgement. Some people are whisking their eggs over a warm water bath, but I just do it in the bowl. Once it’s fluffy, I sift and fold in the flour. I pour the mixture into the tin, almost to the top but not quite.

A cameraman comes over. “How are you doing, Baz?”

I’m sitting on the floor. It’s more of a squat, honestly. An elegant squat, I’d like to think.

I try to look down my nose at the camera while looking upwards. It doesn’t work. 

“Just waiting for them to get some colour on,” I say. “I’ve had them in for seven minutes now.”

I glance to my left, across from Simon, where I hear Agatha’s voice. “I thought I knew what a Jaffa Cake looks like,” Agatha says, her voice bordering on hysterical. She’s kneeling on the floor, staring at her oven. “But now I’m beginning to question what the hell a Jaffa Cake looks like!”

Trixie’s voice, somewhere in front. “For the love of god, rise!” she yells at her oven.

I can’t see Simon. I think he’s laying on his stomach.

I send up a prayer to Mary Berry and take my cakes out of the oven. 

Simon’s still humming, and it’s starting to stress me out. “Will you please stop that?” I ask.

He turns around, pouting. “It just doesn’t feel right without the music.”

“The… music?”

He shrugs with a slight grin. “Yeah. The Bake Off music? You know–”

And he starts humming _again._

This imbecile is going to eliminate every last one of my brain cells, one by one.

“I quite like it,” says Penny, who has apparently been eavesdropping, from across the aisle. “It sets the mood, doesn’t it?”

“If you mean the mood of absolute _panic,”_ I say.

Simon narrows his eyes. “There’s no way you’re having trouble with Jaffa Cakes.”

I toss my head and channel every ounce of aloofness I can summon into a glare. “Mind your business, Snow.”

He points a delighted finger at me. “You are! Baz, I can’t believe this!”

“Eyes on your own bake,” I snap.

I fuss with my chocolate while I wait for the cakes to cool, then pop them out of the tin. _Fuck._ A few of them are sticking. I grimace and carefully run around the edges with a knife.

Shepard, across from Dev, seems to be having trouble as well. His cakes are _gigantic_ and the tops have overflown the tin _._ Ebb’s leaned over his station, grinning. “You’ve gone for maxi Jaffa,” she says. “A sort of Jaffa muffin. A Juffin.”

Shepard rubs at his forehead. “Maybe I’ll shave some of it off.” He looks up in horror. “Maybe that’s a horrible idea. Who knows?”

Ebb pats him on the shoulder. “Not me.”

My twelve cakes are out; the edges are rough, but at least there are twelve of them. I pull my jelly out of the fridge. We’ve been given two different sizes of circular cutters, and all around the tent, I can see people squinting, trying to figure out which one is right.

I decide on the smaller one and cut twelve circles. Now for the moment of truth. Which side of the Jaffa Cake is the right way up?

“Who knows?” Penny says to the camera. She flips her cake over a few times then decides, seemingly at random. “I’m just going to go for it.”

Fiona’s in front of Simon’s station. “There seems to be some discussion over whether the jelly disk should go on that side, or the other side,” she stage-whispers. 

“That side,” Simon says, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “It’s obvious.”

I hate him and his stupid bouncy hair.

“How do you know for certain?” Fiona asks. I try to get a peek, but I can’t see.

“I eat loads of Jaffa Cakes,” he says. “I’m intimately familiar with their anatomy.”

I put the small side up, then carefully pile some chocolate onto the middle of the jelly and spread it with a knife. But even though I used the small cutter, the jelly goes all the way to the edges of the cake, which makes it tough to spread the chocolate…

Fuck it. It’s upside-down for sure.

I flip the rest of them over, and the chocolate goes on easier. If this goes well, maybe I can use a microplane on the rough edges that got stuck. Christ, this is a mess. I take a deep breath and let my gaze narrow in on the chocolate.

If nothing else, they’ll taste good. I take some solace in that.

* * *

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* * *

**Simon**

I’m thrilled about these Jaffa Cakes. I’ve not made them before, but I’ve eaten enough of them that I know almost exactly how to do it.

I’ve put my chocolate into a piping bag, and I’m making careful concentric circles over the top of the cake. “I can control the spread this way,” I tell the camera. The chocolate’s turned out well—guess those stupid temperatures I memorised actually did come in handy—it’ll be nice and shiny when it dries.

“We’ve just heard from David, he will be changing out of his bikini in five minutes!” Ebb calls.

I can see a perfect Jaffa Cake in my mind’s eye—the layers once you bite in, the pattern on the top. I grab a skewer and drag it over the chocolate in straight lines.

I think some people are piping extra chocolate onto the top, which can’t be right.

“How do you get the ridges?” Fiona’s asking Dev.

“You’ve got to do it with a skewer,” he says. 

“If I put my wonky one in the middle, maybe they won’t notice,” I hear Baz say from behind me.

Shepard’s finished and ended up at Penny’s station, where they’re quietly chatting. “Baz was the only other one doing his that way,” Shepard laments, referring to which side goes up, “but he abandoned ship.”

Penny pats him on the shoulder in a way that’s meant to be comforting. “Eat more British snacks.”

I rotate all my cakes so the ridges match up, then step away.

“And that’s time!” Fiona calls. “Please set your Jaffa Cakes behind your portrait at the gingham altar.”

“All hail gingham,” Ebb adds.

After we set up our cakes and sit on stools, the judges come back in. I end up with Penny on one side and Baz on the other; Penny holds my hand, squeezing tightly. Baz is motionless as a statue, his face impassive.

David and Pat move through the Jaffa Cakes, sampling and giving commentary. It’s unnerving that we can see the portraits but they can’t. Penny does well, and she gives my hand a happy squeeze at her success.

Then they’re at Baz’s. The chocolate is clean at the edges, but he’s piped the top, not made ridges. His cake’s a little ragged from sticking. 

“Now, these seem to be the right way up, but that one’s wrong,” David says, picking up the one in the middle. (The ‘wonky one,’ I’m guessing.)

“We’d like them all to be uniform,” Pat says. “And there’s not much of a mark on the top, just sort of chocolate piping. But at least it’s all the way to the edges.”

“They seem to have trimmed the cake,” David says, inspecting the bottom. “Or it stuck.”

Baz releases a ragged huff of breath next to me, and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from turning my head.

Onto mine. “Now, these look like proper Jaffa Cakes, don’t they!” Pat says.

“The chocolate’s shiny, everything’s uniform—they’re actually perfect,” David says.

Penny squeezes my hand again, and I hear Baz shift. I try to stop myself from beaming too hard, but I don’t think it works.

“In twelfth place is this one,” David says, pointing to Shepard’s. He raises his hand sheepishly. “The chocolate was on the wrong side.”

“And in eleventh, this one,” Pat says. She moves to stand behind Baz’s, and now I do turn my head to watch as his face falls. He doesn’t seem all that surprised, just disappointed. He seems like the type to be hard on himself.

Gareth’s tenth—his chocolate didn’t reach the edges—and I barely hear the rest of the rankings as I wait for my name. Penny comes in third, Agatha second, and they _still_ haven’t pointed to my cake. Which means…

“In first place, this one,” David says. “Whose is this?”

I raise my hand as everyone claps, smiling so widely my cheeks hurt.

* * *

**INSTAGRAM**

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:40 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Simon]

 **Caption:** Simon is a conservation ecologist who’s awfully fond of seals. We’re sure his upcoming confections are sure to be some sweet deals!

**@watfordbakeoff**

_20/08/2020, 1:50 pm_

**Image:** [Professional headshot of Trixie]

 **Caption:** Trixie is a garden designer from Wales and loves baking with florals. She’s hoping she’ll come out of Bake Off draped in winning laurels!

* * *

**Simon**

I’m at a table with Gareth, Minos, and Shepard while we wait for the interviews to finish up so we can go back to the hotel. I gave mine a few minutes ago, but it was just me laughing and telling them I have no idea how that happened.

“We don’t have Jaffa Cakes in Nebraska,” Shepard says dejectedly. He picks at a piece of his drizzle cake. “I guess the closest thing would be, like, Twinkies? Or the Hostess CupCakes.”

“I had a Twinkie once,” Gareth says with a grimace. “Way too sweet.”

The hosts emerge from the greenroom, and Fiona walks over to our table and sits on top of it, one leg up, one dangling down. “Hello, gentlemen. Congratulations, Simon.” 

“Thanks!”

“So, first impressions? Was Davy too mean to you?”

“Ah, he was fine,” Minos says, waving a hand. “I’m more worried about how he’ll be during bread week.”

“Just insult him right back, you’ll be alright,” Fiona advises. She shifts back, resting on her palms. “Shepard, you scared?”

He shakes his head, his round glasses reflecting the light. “Nah. My showstopper’s gonna be a hit.”

“Confident, aren’t you,” she says. “It must be the American spirit. Home of the brave and all.”

He laughs. “I’m a British citizen!”

“You’re not British until you tut at someone who skips the queue,” she says seriously. “Have you done that, Shepard?”

“What’s a queue?”

Fiona stares at him, then lays an earnest hand on his shoulder. “I wish you all the best, Shepard.”

“Uh–”

“So!” she says brightly, swapping the position of her legs. “Decent batch of bakers this year, eh?”

“Everyone seems really nice,” I say.

She sits forward. “Anyone you’ve got your eye on, Simon?”

At first I think Fiona’s talking about tough competition, but then she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and I sputter a laugh. “Not like that!”

“You sure? It’s an attractive bunch, I’ll say–”

“Seconded,” Shepard says.

“Isn’t it against the rules or something…” I ask.

Fiona snorts. “This is Bake Off, there aren’t any rules. We make penis jokes at least once an hour.”

“It’s Bake Off, not Love Island,” I protest.

“I’m just stating facts, you all share a hotel floor.” Fiona hops off the table with a mischievous grin and a wave of her fingers. “Have fun tonight.”

I can think of one person I’ve got my eye on. (Well, not like that. Probably.) He’s doing his interview now in front of the pond, wavy hair brushing his shoulders now that he’s freed it from the ponytail. His grey eyes are the same colour as the sky. 

_Why are you on Bake Off, Baz? You could be a movie star. You could play fucking James Bond. Or whatever roles Jude Law has. Those._

He must have been devastated after the technical, but he’d turned to me in the tent with a wry grin on his face. “The wonders you can achieve when you’re not hungover, Simon Snow.”

I took an exaggerated bow.

* * *

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* * *

**Baz**

If it’s not bad enough that Simon Snow is devastatingly attractive _and_ an exceptionally competent baker, he has to be in the hotel room next to mine as well. Worse, they’re _conjoining._ The door’s locked from both sides, but still. 

Even if I hadn’t seen him walk into the room earlier, I’d know now—because Simon is the only contestant who could be so mind-numbingly asinine as to turn on his hairdryer at _one in the fucking morning._

I groan, haul myself out of bed, and bang on our shared door to get him to shut up. The hairdryer stops. And then he knocks back at me.

I am going to kill him.

But the obscene hairdryer sound has stopped, so I heave a sigh and start walking back to bed. And then I hear it: “Hello? Who is it?”

I roll my eyes. He literally commented on our room arrangement when we got up here. “It’s Baz.”

“Oh. Er– hi?”

“Snow. It’s one in the fucking morning. I am not here for conversation.”

I hear a _thump_ against the door, as if he’s let his head fall onto it. I imagine him standing opposite me, separated only by this door, in his pyjamas. And then I stop, because the image is making my ears hot.

“Then why’d you bang on the wall?” he asks, muffled.

“Because you were running your hairdryer! Do you have any idea how loud that monstrosity is?”

The handle of our door jiggles, and then I hear his voice through the crack. “Unlock it, would you?”

“Why? So I have to _see_ your offensive hairdryer as well as hear it?”

“No,” he groans, “just–”

“I’m going to bed,” I snap. “I know you’re shit with timing, but we have to be on the bus in less than five hours.”

Another frustrated groan, and then, “I’m sorry for waking you up, okay? I just… couldn’t sleep. And I had a crisis–”

“I’m not your therapist,” I interrupt. “And anyway, you got first in technical, what could be keeping you up at night?”

“I seriously can’t hear you,” he says. “Just open the door?”

“If I open it, I’ll have to acknowledge this is a real conversation.” 

He huffs. “Jesus. You’re probably just naked or something–”

I unlock the door and swing it open, fixing my face into the best glare I can summon at this hour of night. “I am _not_ naked, Snow.”

Except I wasn’t at all prepared for the sight of a half-naked Simon. Like he’s not the one who just goaded me into opening the door with the accusation of _me_ not having clothes on. He’s not wearing a shirt! Just these blue pyjama bottoms with fucking _cupcakes_ on them, because he can’t just be a moron, he has to be an adorable moron.

He’s oddly fit, for a baker. He’s not thin by any means—the word stocky comes to mind—and he’s got a little of the typical baker’s tummy, but he looks _good_ shirtless. Comfortable, like this is his default state and wearing a shirt is a troublesome necessity of everyday life. His shoulders are sprinkled with freckles, his torso dotted with moles.

He’s holding the green shirt he was wearing today; it’s sopping wet and dripping onto his floor. He smirks at me. “Nice jim-jams, Baz.”

Oh, fuck. I curse myself inwardly and force myself not to look down at my outfit. 

They’re my good-luck pyjamas, gifted to me by my siblings yesterday before I left for my first day in the tent. They’re good quality, silky smooth—but they’re not solid-coloured like all my other pyjamas, no. They’re black and decorated with drawings of eggs.

Of all things.

Whole eggs, cracked eggs, eggs sunny side up, eggs in skillets, scrambled eggs, eggs benedict. They were accompanied by a note that said _“You’ll do egg-celently!”_ and, well. The collective power of intention of four children has got to be at least somewhat effective.

I scrub a hand across my face. “What exactly did you want?”

“I just wanted to explain,” he says earnestly. “And apologise again for the hairdryer. It’s just–” He holds up his soaking shirt and frowns. “The clothes thing.”

We have to wear the same clothes both days in the tent because of the interviews; when the show airs, they’ll be interspersed throughout the episode, possibly out of order.

“So you’re washing your shirt,” I extrapolate. “Understandable, but your timing is awful. As usual.”

Simon literally _pouts_ at that. “Listen, I sat bolt upright like ten minutes ago in a _panic_ because I completely forgot! What else was I supposed to do?”

“Perhaps come up with some semblance of an organisational system,” I say dryly. “And wear an undershirt next week.”

“Right. Well.” He grimaces and gingerly holds up the shirt again. “It’ll be another few minutes of the hairdryer. Sorry.”

I roll my eyes. “Good night, Snow.” I swing the door shut. And then I lay awake for another half hour listening to the infernal blow of the hairdryer.

He does look good shirtless. For a baker. (For anyone.)

* * *

**Saturday, April 4, 2020**

**Simon**

It’s birthday cake time.

I’ve practiced this cake over and over—it’s the first Showstopper bake, after all, it has to go perfectly—but I’ve never finished it in time. The little details always get me. I’m shit at piping.

I wonder what everyone else is going to make.

“Good morning, bakers!” Ebb says. 

“Welcome to your very first Showstopper,” Fiona says.

“Pat and Davy would love for you to make a birthday cake today,” Ebb announces. “But not just any old birthday cake. They want the birthday cake you dreamt of having as a child.”

“So think back to when you were wee,” Fiona says. “When the most important things in life were games of hopscotch and whether Father Christmas thought you were naughty– Spoiler alert, you were…”

“And serve us the cake of your dreams,” Ebb says. “What was your dream birthday cake, Fiona?”

“Oh, I was properly punk,” she says. “Probably something with a skull on it. And it’d probably taste bad, because I thought making cakes with salt instead of sugar made me cool.”

“You weren’t!” Ebb says cheerily. “All right, you’ve got four hours. On your marks…”

“Get set…”

“Bake!”

And we’re off.

I’m baking a dragon cake. I was obsessed with dragons as a kid. I loved fantasy, escapist stories about brave knights and princesses and castles—when I could get my hands on them. My first care home wasn’t too bad. They used to read us bedtime stories, sometimes, when I was really small.

Honestly, I’m still a bit obsessed with dragons. I think it got even stronger after I’d graduated from storybooks to Eragon and Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones. (They’re just so fucking _cool.)_

The cake’s modeled after Smaug, actually—the outside colours are red and gold, and the inside is a red velvet sponge with ripples of gold-flecked buttercream. Three layers, plus a mishmash of shapes stuck together for the dragon’s body; I’ve got my work cut out for me. I’m making multicoloured gems out of jelly and custom molds. And of course, the dragon’s head is the real challenge. It’s molded from a Rice Krispie-marshmallow mixture, then covered in layered fondant.

I’ve made this dragon so many times, but even with the lightweight cake alternative, the head has fallen off more times than not.

A few others are using the Rice Krispie trick. Shepard’s making a rocket ship, and the way he’s molding the fondant with his hands over the conical top of the rocket is a bit… 

“It’s a tiny little thing, so I have to be pretty careful with it,” he says.

… a bit lewd.

“Tiny, huh?” Fiona says, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I mean rocket noses are all different sizes, but this one’s–” He cuts off as the innuendo catches up with him, a laugh lighting up his handsome features.

Fiona pats him gently on the arm. “It’s okay, size doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about what they tell you.”

When they get to my station, Ebb’s delighted by the dragon. “Not a fan of Lord of the Rings, though,” she says. “I much prefer the nice dragons from Harry Potter, you know—like Norbert. He’s precious.” 

“I’m fully expecting to see Benedict Cumberbatch’s face on your cake, Simon,” Fiona says.

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m planning,” I say. “See, there are his cheekbones…”

Agatha’s across from me, and she’s piping trees out of chocolate and crafting something huge and fondant-y. “What are you making?” I ask.

“A magical forest,” she says simply. “With unicorns.”

I grin and gesture to my dragon. “So we both like mythical creatures.”

Her hands move delicately over her glittery fondant, shaping it perfectly into a horse’s torso. “I mean, I’m a vet now, and I work with real horses. But when I was younger, it was all unicorns.” She attaches a swirling candy horn to the head and holds it up for me to see. I notice a camera zoning in on our interaction.

“What’s the blue?”

“Isomalt,” she says. “It’s going to be a waterfall, hopefully.” 

“The forest looks amazing. Looks like the Wavering Woods, nearby—have you been there?”

Agatha smiles shyly. “Yeah, it’s modeled after that, actually.”

It’s wicked. I barely stop myself from going on a full rant about old growth forests.

I can barely see what everyone else is making, but I turn around when Baz and Fiona start talking. “It’s a car,” he says with an arch of his eyebrow. “A red Corvette, to be precise.”

It looks… familiar.

“Are you making Lightning McQueen?” I ask. (Because who didn’t love _Cars,_ but also that’s _adorable,_ because it’s uptight _Baz_ baking it.)

“Kachow,” he says with a wink. I laugh so hard I nearly drop my spoon.

* * *

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* * *

**Baz**

“Halfway through!” Fiona shouts into a bullhorn that has suddenly materialised out of nowhere. I cover my ears, scowling at her for dramatic effect. She sticks her tongue out at me.

I’m wrangling with a sheet of fondant, praying it doesn’t break. The colour’s come out well, a vivid red, and I’ve carved out most of the details and set them aside. My cakes are almost cool. Once the fondant’s rolled out, I’ll whip up a quick chocolate buttercream to coat the cake.

Penny, across from me, is creating a storybook. The base is cake, and she’s laying a large iced biscuit on one side that I’m guessing will actually turn like a page. Because she’s Penny, after all; she can’t do anything halfway. Dev’s behind me, so I catch bits of his conversations, and I think he’s making something pirate-themed. 

I finish early, ticking the last item off my spreadsheet with a relieved sigh. The cake looks brilliant—I’ve done all the details in fondant and set it up on a plastic racing track instead of a cake stand. 

In front of me, Simon’s scrambling to finish his dragon. It looks magnificent; the dragon’s laid on its side, the head huge and detailed. He’s created scales using the netting from a bag of fruit and black airbrushing. 

I can easily tell that it’s Smaug—he’s curled around a gigantic pile of gold-dipped chocolates, fondant swords, and glittering gems made of boiled sweets. The dragon and his treasures are mounted atop a platform. I watch as Simon wraps a collar around the fondant-wrapped base, a strip of cellophane on which he’s piped chocolate words—mirrored. It’s impressive as hell. He peels off the cellophane to reveal lettering in uncial script: _My armour is like tenfold shields…_

“Five minutes!” Ebb shouts.

Simon bites his lip, carefully attempting to attach fragile caramel wings to the dragon’s back. He’s having trouble, because of course the moron has cut himself again—his left hand is more bandage than finger at this point.

I almost ask him if he needs help, but then I remember that he got first in the technical and I got bloody _eleventh._ He doesn’t need my help. As much as he blusters, it’s clear that he’s fairly competent when he tries. (And even when he doesn’t.)

He’s like a freak of nature. He seems to rely on pure instinct more than anything practical, like practice or planning. He just wings it. (Literally—he’s just gotten the wings stuck to his hands with sticky caramel.) 

I watch as he un-sticks himself and makes the finishing touches. He scrawls a line across his checklist, which is just a messily handwritten series of scribbles on yellow paper, and steps back, proud. He should be—it’s an impressive cake. (I can’t wait to try it, after. I think we get to do that.)

“It’s Smaug, right?” Penny asks, leaning across the aisle.

“No, I just put that _Hobbit_ quote on there for fun,” Simon says with a wink.

“And that’s time!” Fiona shouts. “Step away from your bakes.”

* * *

**Simon**

Well, it’s not quite judgement time. 

We’re herded into the green room like a flock of lost sheep while they clean up and get the “glamour shots” of our cakes.

I wander around and end up whisked into a conversation with Elspeth and Trixie. Elspeth is showing us photos of her place; it looks like a fucking haunted house. She says the cobwebs and spiders are all real. When I look down, she’s wearing stripy witch socks under her dress and shoes with little buckles on them.

Shepard’s been telling some mad story about the American midwest to a small group of people, and Baz is loitering about the coffee machine like he’s expecting it to divulge the secrets of the universe. After a while, we all kind of lapse into silence.

“We should bring games next time,” Niall notes, and everyone murmurs their agreement.

At long last, they herd us back into the tent for judging. I’m knackered—the adrenaline of finishing the bake has definitely worn off by now. We stand back at our now-clean stations and prepare to be filmed again.

Ebb and Fiona pick up like we never left. “First up is Minos, please bring your cake to the front of the tent.”

I catch a glimpse as he passes—it looks like a sailboat or something—but once he’s up there, my view is mostly obscured and I only catch bits and pieces of what everyone’s saying. I try to look interested, since there are cameras all over the place, sweeping over our faces.

Everyone’s cakes look amazing, and they’re so creative. Trixie’s made a fairy garden, this absolutely gorgeous thing covered in flowers and individually piped grass. There’s a carousel, a treasure chest, a sweet shop, and even a ghost wearing a flower crown. (Guess whose.)

I hear a couple tidbits of negative reviews: Philippa’s and Gareth’s cakes. It sets my nerves off, but I steadfastly maintain a smile. 

Baz goes right before me. His cake is awesome—absolutely something a seven year-old would be delighted by. A bright red car on a racing track, all tricked out and complete with the bumper stickers.

He comes back smiling with teeth. It almost looks strange.

“Simon, if you’d bring your cake up, please,” Ebb says. “Need a hand?”

She helps me carry Smaug to the front. I think I’ve stunned David and Pat silent because they stare at it for a full, heartstopping minute before speaking.

“It’s delightful, Simon,” Pat says, and my grin spreads across my face. “The details are just amazing.” 

“It’s a little scary,” David says. “I feel like it could spring to life any moment.”

“Good,” I laugh.

They cut a section from the base to taste. (I know the cake’s good—I ate all the scraps.) It’s over quickly with another few impressed remarks, a “that doesn’t look anything like Benedict” from Fiona, and a (positive?) comment from Ebb that comes out totally garbled through her mouthful of cake. 

_You’ll become like family,_ the producer had said on Friday. When I turn around to see eleven faces beaming back at me, I know it could be true.

* * *

**Present Day**

**September 2, 2020**

**Simon**

_“It’s my pleasure this week to announce Star Baker,”_ Ebb says on screen. 

The camera flashes over my face, Penny’s, and Trixie’s. Dramatic music (well, as dramatic as it gets on Bake Off) plays in the background. 

_“Simon! Congratulations!”_

Everyone claps, and the _ca_ mera zooms in on my surprised and joyful expression. Penny tackles me in a hug.

Here, in my living room, everyone does a sarcastic little golf clap. Dev winks at us. “And that’s the moment Baz realised, poor chap, that he had a competency kink.” 

Baz snorts, but whatever snarky retort he had coming is cut off by the camera panning over to his face. He’s looking right at me onscreen, smiling.

“Oh my god, they’re doing it!” Agatha shrieks.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“They’ve been doing it all episode,” she accuses.

“What?!” 

“It’s obvious,” Penny says. “They’re foreshadowing you two.”

“No, they’re not,” Baz scowls. “We didn’t even like each other then.” 

I elbow him. “Did too.” 

He elbows me back. “I don’t _actually_ have a competency kink, Snow.”

“Liar.”

“I spent the entirety of the first weekend insulting you. And anyway, isn’t it a bit early to start–” he waves at the TV screen– “this?”

“It’s a marketing thing,” Penny says dismissively.

“Just wait,” Agatha says. “There’ll be a betting pool on Twitter and everything. People will be making gifs of you two.”

“They’ll give you a ship name,” Penny adds. 

“We already have one!” I defend.

“Spare me from this,” Baz says, rolling his eyes.

“No. If Twitter comes for me, I’m dragging you down with me.” 

_“I’ve got the bad job this week,”_ Fiona cuts in from the screen. We fall silent for a moment as the camera pans over a few faces. _“The person leaving us today is… Gareth. I’m so sorry.”_

“It’s too bad,” Niall says. “He was nice.”

Dev laughs at the way Baz wrinkles his nose. “Come off it, Baz, just because he had bad fashion sense doesn’t mean he wasn’t a fun bloke to be around.”

“No, but…” Baz shakes his head. “Christ, that belt was obnoxious.”

We watch the ending interviews—God, mine’s embarrassing, I’m close to tears—and a group hug in the tent at the end. 

“Group hug,” Shepard announces, pulling the people nearest him off the floor. We all crowd together and watch the final shot, the sun going down over the tent in Watford Park.

* * *

**Baz**

After everyone leaves and Simon and I clean up, I spot a Jaffa Cake on the floor.

Strange. I could swear we picked everything up.

I bend down to retrieve the Jaffa Cake, and then I see another one a few feet away. My eyes skip ahead where I see another, and then another… leading into the bedroom.

Simon Snow is an unflappable idiot, and I love him for it.

I scoop up the Jaffa Cakes in my arms, eat one on the way to the room, and ease open the door. Simon’s laying on his bed, wearing nothing but socks and a conveniently placed Jaffa Cake. “Fancy a snack?” he asks.

“You’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” I tell him. A Jaffa Cake rolls down my arm like a coin and bounces onto the floor. I pile the rest onto the bedside table.

“I thought I’d honour our humble beginnings,” Simon says. “Disastrous Jaffa Cakes and all.”

“And disastrous flirting,” I supply.

“On your end, maybe.” He winks, but he’s bad at it—he looks like he’s having a minor face spasm. 

I slide onto the bed beside him. “I’m not eating that off of you.”

He grumbles and throws it at my head. “This is what I get for trying to be seductive.”

“I can’t believe the sexiest thing you could think of was _cake.”_

Simon rolls up onto his elbows and gives me a look. “There’s nothing sexier than a good cake, Baz. Nothing.”

“I can think of one.” I let my eyes roam over him, deliberately, then say, “Me.”

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

I lean down to kiss him. He tastes like perfect, first-place Jaffa Cakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 1 Recipes**  
>  \- [Basbousa](https://amiraspantry.com/basbousa/) \- Inspiration for Baz's drizzle cake  
> \- [ Almond cherry cake](https://thecafesucrefarine.com/ridiculously-easy-fresh-cherry-almond-cake/) \- Similar to Simon's drizzle cake  
> \- [Penny's orange sage drizzle cake](https://melindastrauss.com/2015/11/19/orange-sage-olive-oil-cake/)  
> \- [Mary Berry's Jaffa Cakes recipe](https://www.pbs.org/food/recipes/mary-berrys-jaffa-cakes/)


	2. Biscuit Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bakers enter Biscuit Week at bakeneck speed as they create Signature regional biscuits, David’s puff pastry palmiers, and a Showstopper Biscuit Selfie Portrait—with a twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this week’s Tumblr post with all of selkie's amazing art [HERE,](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/628902679898374144/the-great-watford-bake-off-chapter-2) plus a visual of the tent setup! (Art also embedded in the fic.) 
> 
> Click to the end notes for recipes, plus a full chart with all the bakes and rankings (spoilers!) for this week.
> 
> Thanks to [ashspren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) for helping me brainstorm ideas and Tweets, and thanks to ashspren and [CSCB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for beta reading! ❤️

**EPISODE TWO: BISCUIT WEEK**

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* * *

**Shepard**

This is not a _biscuit._

Biscuits are savory. You eat them with _gravy._ My mom made biscuits every Sunday when I was a kid—we’d eat them piping hot from the oven, drizzled with honey, and then have the leftovers for lunch with fried chicken.

I could really go for a warm biscuit right now.

I’m appalled at what’s labeled as a biscuit here. It’s a cookie! There’s already a word for shortbread and gingerbread and sugar dough baked into squares or circles or little people. _Cookie._

And if they call _those_ biscuits, then what the fuck do they call actual biscuits?

“Penny,” I call. She ignores me. (She’s hunched over her station in front of mine, very focused on her biscui– _cookie_ dough.) “Penelope,” I try again.

She turns around, heaving a sigh. “Yes?”

“What do you call biscuits here?”

She blinks at me. “What do you mean? We’re literally making biscuits.”

“No,” I rub at my forehead, “like, _biscuits._ They’re round and… flaky…” She looks completely lost. “You know! American biscuits.”

Penny’s brow furrows. “Scones?”

“Scones are _sweet.”_

“Fine, savory scones,” she says, rolling her eyes, then turns back around. 

_Savory_ scones. That’s bullshit. 

I turn back to my _cookie._ Our task was to create 24 regional biscuits. When I first read the prompt, I was confused. (I mean, there’s a difference between biscuits from Georgia and biscuits from New Jersey—but not anatomically. It’s more of the _soul_ of the biscuit than anything.)

Turns out we have to make _cookies_ from an area of Britain. Most people are baking something with personal significance—a cookie from where they were raised or a place they really love. I almost asked if I could do something for Nebraska when I realized Nebraska doesn’t even _have_ regional cookies. (Mom’s chocolate chip… those packaged Grandma’s cookies… Girl Scout knockoffs?)

In front of me, I can hear Penny talking about her chai-spiced ginger nuts. I’ve never even heard of a ginger nut. (Are they like ginger snaps? Why do these people have to have a different name for everything?) Across the aisle, Dev is creating something so neon orange it hurts my eyes and saying something about goose. Geese?

“So, Shepard!” Fiona says. “Our token American, tasked with creating a British biscuit. How’s it going so far?”

“These aren’t biscuits,” I respond like a petulant toddler. I’m _right,_ though. “They’re cookies.”

“Darling,” Ebb begins, “have you ever heard the saying, ‘When in Rome, do as Romans do?’” 

“Well, when I moved to London I came across these things called _digestives.”_

“Imagine digestives being a novelty,” Fiona quips.

“The name makes them sound like something my grandma would eat–”

“They are.”

“–but I like the texture. And you can eat them for breakfast without anyone giving you shade, which is a plus.” I roll out my dough to a quarter inch while I talk. “Thing is, I wanted to put my regional spin on them.”

“What are they flavored with?” Pat asks. 

“Well, I was born in a cornfield,” I say. “So these–”

“Pardon, you… what?” Fiona looks horrified.

I laugh. “Yeah, my mom was driving herself to the hospital in a tractor, but I popped out before she had time to get there. So she just pulled over and gave birth on a bale of hay.”

Four faces blink back at me. Patricia’s looking a little nauseous. 

“True story,” I say cheerily. “Anyway, these digestives are cornmeal and fennel, plus some buttermilk in the dough. They’re good. I ate the whole batch when I practiced.”

Pat nods slowly. “Well. Ahem. Nice that you’re putting your American spin on digestives.”

“Truly precious,” Fiona deadpans.

They wish me luck and leave. I test a bite of cookie dough. Not bad, not bad.

* * *

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* * *

**Baz**

Something is burning.

It’s coming from behind me, diagonally. I turn around—my eyes scan over Penny, across from me, Dev, behind me, and then…

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Ebb is hurrying over. “We can’t air this if you curse, love.”

Shepard rakes a hand across his hair. “That’s probably a good thing.” He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes with one hand. “Um. Fuck. They.”

He gestures helplessly to his biscuits, which are completely charred. 

“What happened?” Ebb asks.

“I, uh–” Shepard crouches to look at his oven. “I set the oven to 300.”

“Three hundred?!” Penny shrieks. “Are you mad?!”

“Yeah, 300, that’s norm–” Shepard freezes. “Shit.” 

“They don’t even go _up_ to 300!” Penny says, and then they both start laughing. 

“God, who knew it would be the _British_ part to trip me up and not the _baking_ part?”

Penny shakes her head. “Aren’t you an aerospace engineer? You should know better.”

“I knew I was just here for comic relief.” Shepard laughs and rests his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his workstation. “Guess I’ll start over…”

“Do you need help?” she asks. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, just have to finish piping my cream.”

Shepard’s brow furrows. “What the heck. You’d do that?”

One thing that delights me to no end about people assisting each other on this show is how much it baffles American viewers. Penny shrugs. “Accidents happen. Stupid ones, mind you. Really stupid ones. Honestly, what were you thinki–”

“You know, maybe I don’t want your help after all if you’re just gonna roast me the whole time…”

 _“Roast,_ ha, like you did to your biscuits?”

I tune out their banter and turn back to my biscuits. 

They’re flecked with purple lavender and infused with lavender extract as well. I prepare a bowl of vanilla bean Earl Grey icing and dip the edge of each biscuit diagonally. I arrange tiny, multicoloured edible flowers on the icing with tweezers before they dry. 

They look gorgeous, if I do say so myself. 

* * *

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* * *

**Simon**

Agatha and I are making the same biscuits. Damn it. I can overhear her talking about her Aberffraws, and I’m just hoping they’re a different flavour than mine. 

They’re Welsh biscuits, since I’m part Welsh (never lived there, though.) For the shape, I brought a real seashell from my favourite bit of the Norfolk coast, Blakeney Point, where I’ve worked on Grey Seal rehabilitation. Usually Aberffraws are made in a madeleine pan, but I like how these are custom. 

“Sandwich biscuits!” Ebb says, watching me shape my shortbread dough around my seashell. “That’s unusual for Aberffraws. You’re _shelling_ out more work for yourself, you know. No pun intended.”

“I had to elevate them for the competition,” I say. “I wanted to invoke a bit of the ocean in the flavour, so they’re going to be filled with sea-salt caramel cream.”

“You know, Agatha’s making these too,” Ebb stage-whispers, leaning close. “She’s not got a real shell, though.”

“What flavour?” I ask.

“Lemon and white chocolate,” she says. “Different enough.”

“I’m doing a white chocolate dip, too. With a blue sugar rim.”

“You’re mad,” she says. “Will you finish in time?”

“Dunno, I’ve never done it all at once at home,” I say with a laugh.

“You’re _mad,”_ she repeats, and gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Penny’s doing a sandwich biscuit, too,” Fiona says. “Something with like, ten flavours.”

Of course she is. Week two and I can already tell she’ll go completely extra on everything. I shrug. “I’m not surprised.”

The biscuits go in the oven and it smells _heavenly_ in here. Even better than yesterday—for some reason I’ve always loved the scent of baking dough more than batter. I get a hint of tea from Trixie’s Baa-ra Brith biscuits in front of me and a whiff of currants from Elspeth’s Chorley cakes.

“Yes, I’m aware shortbread is traditionally Scottish,” I hear Baz drawl from behind me. “These are an old family adaptation, though.”

“Southampton Shortbread!” Fiona declares.

“Exactly.”

“I make loads of dog biscuits,” Agatha’s telling a camera across from me as she prepares her decorations. She looks a bit harried. “And those are fine, very low-stakes. Your judges are complimentary no matter what you make!”

I glance at the clock from my position on the floor. Then at my oven timer. _Fuck._ I have to take the biscuits out now, or they won’t have time to cool before I sandwich them. But they’re not done.

My piping bag is filled, my white chocolate melted, my tray of blue sanding sugar ready. I stare at the shells, willing them to turn just a touch golden.

Whatever Baz is baking behind me smells incredible. Like lavender and spice and rainy days.

“I’ll give it two minutes,” I mutter, clutching my timer in one fist. 

They’re still _slightly_ underdone when I take them out—this is what I get for not timing my practice bakes, maybe Baz is onto something—but they’re cooked, at least. 

I transfer the biscuits to a rack and wave my baking sheet at them in a desperate effort to get them to cool faster.

“Hey, you’re doing the Bake-Off thing!” Niall shouts from across the tent. We both laugh. “Does it work?” he asks.

“Nope!” I yell back, just as cheerfully.

I dip just the tips of the shells in the white chocolate and sugar and leave them to harden slightly before piping the salted caramel buttercream in wavy shapes and sandwiching the biscuits together.

“One minute!” Ebb calls.

I arrange them on my slate platter, which is covered in tan sanding sugar and blue and white buttercream waves I piped while the biscuits were baking. Seashells by the sea. Perfect. (Well, a bit pale. But they’re fine. It’s fine.)

* * *

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* * *

**Baz**

Judging went well, and I feel good having started this week off on the right foot. An old recipe, a practiced recipe, one I am confident with. 

The judges loved my biscuits. (Apparently they were “precious” yet “elegant.”) I think Penny’s were some of the best as well: Yorkshire chai gingernuts sandwiched with lime-nutmeg cream. Simon’s were underdone, yet attractive. Shepard’s, surprisingly, were decent, though he didn’t have time to decorate them. 

As for the bottom of the pile (in my opinion, at least), Philippa made a riff on Irish fifteens, which aren’t even baked—on a baking show! I’m not sure what she was thinking. Trixie seems to be in trouble as well. Her baa-ra brith biscuits were sweet-looking, like little lambs, but apparently the texture was off.

The technical is a different story. But this week I pored over David’s and Patricia’s cookbooks in preparation, adding sticky notes to every page with a biscuit recipe. Fingers crossed that today’s assignment is a recipe I’m familiar with.

“Any guesses for what it’s going to be?” Dev asks. He’s idly folding up a napkin, creating madly intricate shapes—though I’m not sure he even notices he’s doing it. 

“Something we’ve never heard of, I’m sure,” I respond. I bite into one of Elspeth’s red currant Chorley cakes. She gave us quite a fright when she passed them out after the bake—they look like bloody, disembodied eyeballs. But they’re delicious.

“With a name we can’t pronounce,” Niall adds.

Back in the tent, the camera rolls and Ebb steps up to the front. “Bakers, welcome to your second technical challenge. This one’s been set for you by Davy. Any advice?”

David purses his lips, silent for a long minute. His mustache quivers. Finally, he says, “Don’t rush.”

“And there he goes again, disproving that brevity is the soul of wit,” Fiona quips. “As always, this challenge will be judged blind. Off you pop, then.”

“Where are they going today, Fiona?”

“They’re squeezing in a quick skydive before the judging.”

Ebb laughs. “So today, the judges would like you to make twelve _palmiers.”_

Palmiers. Thank god. I eat so many sweets it’d be shameful if I didn’t know how to make puff pastry. This will be a snap.

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Fiona warns, as if reading my mind. “The judges will be looking for neat lamination, clean, tight spirals, and biscuits baked to a perfect golden.”

“Make them ‘butter’ than any palmiers you’ve ever made before.”

“Like they belong in the window of a French _pâtisserie._ Right in the display case out front.” 

“They must be identical in shape and size. You’ve got two and a half hours. On your marks…”

“Get set–”

“Bake!”

I whip the gingham cloth off my station to see the blessedly familiar ingredients. In front of me, Simon exclaims, “Butter!”

“Is it a novelty to you?” I ask.

He turns around, grinning from ear to ear. You’d really think he’s never seen butter before in his life. “What?”

“Butter,” I say. “In case you have forgotten, Snow, you are a baker and this is a baking competition.”

“Just excited is all,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I’m shit at pastry. But butter’s like my best friend. We’ll make it work.”

His _best friend._ Christ. Who _personifies_ butter like that?

I turn on my oven, then pull out a pen and study the recipe.

_Palmiers Technical_

_Recipe by David Mage_

The ingredients and quantities are listed, then:

  * _Make the dough._


  * _Laminate with butter._


  * _Roll out to a rectangle._


  * _Sprinkle with sugar._


  * _Fold the edges in, then fold inwards once more._


  * _Slice. Lay the biscuits on a sheet and sprinkle with sugar._


  * _Bake at 220º._



“They’re really helpful instructions, actually!” Dev’s saying brightly to the cameras behind me. “It just says ‘Make the dough,’” which is great. Really specific. This man sells cookbooks, you know.”

To make a laminated dough, you first make a simple dough with flour and water, then fold a little package of butter into it. A classic puff pastry is made with six “turns” of the dough in total—six times you fold, then roll, fold, then roll.

I’ve made croissants before—my family loves my _pain au chocolat—_ but never palmiers. It’s the same basic formula, though.

I quickly pull together my dough and pop it in the fridge. When I come back to my station, Simon’s aggressively bashing at his butter block with a rolling pin. 

Ebb looks horrified at the treatment. “What did the butter ever do to you?” 

He’s panting. He wipes sweat off his face with that infernal towel. His arm muscles flex obscenely as he goes back to pummeling the butter. “It’s effective! And just a good way to get the nerves out, you know?”

“By taking it out on some poor butter?”

“The butter likes it!”

Fiona raises an eyebrow. “That’s a bit deviant, Simon, even for butter.”

Simon groans. “You two, I swear! The butter wants to be laminated,” he insists. “I’m sure of it. Now stop interrupting us, we’re having a moment.”

He pounds at the butter with the rolling pin until he’s satisfied.

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* * *

**Simon**

Agatha is cursing like a sailor. She looks like the kind of person who’d be scandalised by the word _balls,_ so it’s a little jarring to hear her referring to her puff pastry as a series of words that are definitely not appropriate for family-friendly television. 

_(Is_ this show family-friendly? I suppose children wouldn’t catch onto the innuendo, but still.)

I’m trying to keep my cool, but puff pastry is not my strong suit. It’s not even my medium suit. The butter-bashing helped me burn off some anxious energy, but every time I fold my dough everything melts a little more. I’m terrified it’s going to turn into a soggy mess in the oven, or worse—if the butter’s too warm, it’ll just fall out of the pastry, and I’ll be left with no flaky layers to speak of. 

Just sogginess. The horror.

Behind me, Baz is shaping his butter into a square with his rolling pin. He manages to make the action look elegant, the tosser—as if he’s a stern schoolteacher reprimanding his buttery pupil. It’s more momentum than brute force. How the _fuck_ does he make butter bashing look so fluid?

“All right, Agatha?” I ask across the aisle.

She looks up and frowns. “My pastry won’t behave. I’ve made palmiers a hundred times and it’s never been like this before.”

“Probably because it’s so humid in here.”

The tent has so many issues. It’s like, whatever you thought you knew about a kitchen, throw it out the window. Everything moves and slides and your food is subject to the elements in new and impossible ways. 

“I was excited about this challenge,” she grumbles, rolling her dough with a little too much force. Her forearms are ridiculously toned. “French pastry is the one thing I wasn’t worried about. It’s fun, usually…”

 _Fun._ I almost laugh. For me, pastry is anything but. Making pastry is all about keeping things cold—your utensils, your butter, your _hands._ I run hot, so more often than not, my pie and tart crusts are complete failures. Not to mention my chocolate, sugar work… basically everything except bread.

“Fun, you say?” Fiona’s appeared on the scene, trailed by Ebb and the judges. _“Les pâtisseries françaises?_ That’s a joke, right?”

Agatha laughs lightly, demeanor suddenly shifting now that she’s in front of a camera. _“Non pas du tout!_ Not at all. I’ve something of an obsession with French pastry. I own over one hundred cookbooks, and more than half of them are French.”

“How are these going, then?” Ebb asks.

Agatha finishes rolling and places her dough back in the fridge. When she faces them again, there’s a tiny wrinkle between her brows. “I’m a bit worried, to be honest. I’ve made palmiers plenty of times before, though, for fun.”

“So making pastry is like your chill time?” Fiona says. “No pun intended.”

“Yeah!” 

“And now you’ve turned it into a nightmare.”

Agatha’s bright expression doesn’t even waver. “Yeah!”

“But you _have_ entered a competition, so it’s sort of your own fault.”

Agatha laughs. “It is. God, what have I done?”

“Well, good luck with that!” Fiona gives her a sarcastic little salute, and they move on to the next station.

I finish rolling out my dough, fold each side in, then fold them in again. Once I pop it in the fridge, there’s nothing to do but set a timer and wait. 

“One hour left!” Ebb calls. 

My timer’s at thirty minutes. And they need to bake for eighteen to twenty. Plus slicing time in between. That’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t it? 

* * *

**Baz**

Palmiers are shaped like hearts. They’re impossibly good, if done right—flaky layers, crunchy sugar, just the right size for a snack with your coffee. 

“Love is stored in the biscuits,” Simon declares happily. He holds one of his uncooked biscuits up to show the camera. The layers look a little rough, but it’s decent.

As a stark contrast to the wholesomeness in front of my eyes, Dev suddenly exclaims from behind me, “Oh my god, my biscuits are huge!”

Everyone ignores him, until:

“You know, upside down, they kind of look like–”

“Dev!” Fiona interrupts smoothly. She and Ebb hurry over to his station. “Why don’t you tell us how your palmiers are going?”

“Well, the round bits have swollen up a little…”

At this point, he’s either ludicrously oblivious, or he’s doing it on purpose.

Ebb and Fiona exchange a look before they shoo the cameraman away with a grand sweeping gesture.

Dev, darling,” Fiona announces solemnly, “your biscuits look exactly like bollocks.”

They all dissolve into laughter, and Dev shakes his head. “I can’t say I didn’t bring that one upon myself.”

I put my palmiers in the oven, set my timer, and end up speaking with Penny about the Medieval History courses she teaches. (I’m not exactly keen to strike up a conversation with Bollocks-Palmier Dev.) (Or Simon Snow of the Injudicious Hairdryer, no matter how impressive his dragon cake was.)

Ironically enough, her favourite course she’s teaching this semester is called _Not So Middle: What the Rest of the World Was Up To._ “It’s about non-European history from 500-1500 CE,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “With a focus on Northern Africa, Central Asia, Arabia, and India.”

She has a few historical-themed bakes planned as well, and it’s all so interesting that my oven timer is going off before I know it. 

“They’re perfect,” I tell the camera as I pull them out. They’ve come out beautifully; clean, identical heart shapes, sugar-dusted edges crisp. 

In front of me, Simon swears. “Butter melted out,” he groans. He pokes one of his palmiers. “They’re all squishy.” 

Across from him, Agatha’s palmiers look picture-perfect, like they belong in a recipe book. I can smell someone’s sugar burning near the front.

“One minute!” Ebb calls. Cameras everywhere, capturing our last-minute panic: arranging our palmiers on the platters, lamenting the state of biscuits, whether too cooked or too raw…

“Remember, window of a French _pâtisserie,”_ Fiona says.

Dev huffs a laugh as he arranges his… misshapen… palmiers. “Maybe mine will go in the window of a patisserie that’s a bit down on its luck,” he muses. “They’ve been seeing some tough times, but plucky little guys, they keep on going.”

“And time!” Ebb says. “Please bring your palmiers to the gingham altar and place them behind your portrait.”

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50324967123/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325021698/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Technical Rankings**

**Baker**

| 

**Place**  
  
---|---  
  
Agatha

| 

1st   
  
Baz

| 

2nd  
  
Dev

| 

11th   
  
Elspeth

| 

3rd  
  
Minos

| 

9th  
  
Niall

| 

8th  
  
Penny

| 

5th  
  
Philippa

| 

7th  
  
Shepard

| 

6th  
  
Simon

| 

10th  
  
Trixie

| 

4th  
  
* * *

  
  


**Baz**

I’ve been thinking about the Showstopper all week.

Mainly because I only _had_ a week to think about it. 

Fiona steps up in front of the camera. “Welcome back to the tent, everyone. This week’s Showstopper is a challenge that has never before been seen on Bake-Off.”

“This week, our lovely bakers have been tasked with creating a… biscuit selfie portrait,” Ebb says. 

I never thought I’d hear that combination of words out loud.

“But not biscuit selfie portraits of themselves, no,” Ebb continues. “Of each other.”

“And here’s the other twist,” Fiona says. “While they knew about the challenge in general, they only found out their assignments… last Sunday.”

“Like a biscuit Secret Santa!” Ebb says. “We drew the names from a hat, so the assignments were completely random.”

“Just one week to prepare a fantastic biscuit masterpiece,” Fiona explains. “The judges are looking for layers of biscuits and fillings.”

“It should be recognisable as your subject’s face,” Ebb says. “And they should be posing somewhere memorable. A setting of your choice.”

“Perhaps you’ve become best mates and taken them on vacation with you to your favourite spot,” Fiona adds. “That kind of thing.”

“You’ve got four hours to complete this bake.”

“Don’t make each other too ugly.”

“On your marks…”

“Get set–”

“Bake!”

Three guesses who my assignment is.

He’s standing in front of me. He’s mixing black royal icing. And he keeps looking at me over his shoulder.

The next time he does it, I catch his eye. “It’s not polite to stare, Simon.”

He shrugs, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder. The sight is unreasonably hot. “I’m curious who you’ve got.”

His shoulders are deliciously broad. And the towel–

I don’t know why that’s _doing things_ to me, but I learned a long time ago not to question what I’m into. (It’s tiring, constantly being shocked by new things.)

“It’s meant to be a secret,” I say. I’m folding macaron batter, and I hope he doesn’t catch on that it’s the same bronze colour as his hair.

Simon is all sunshine. Spilling hair and freckle-kissed skin. So I’m sending him somewhere tropical—it’s where he’d fit. I’ve got a perfect almond sugar cookie recipe for the “canvas,” and he’ll be in passion fruit buttercream and mango royal icing against a backdrop of palm trees and ocean.

The canvas in the oven, I start piping the miniature macarons to form his curls. I bang out the tray, causing Simon to look back curiously, and set them to the side. Next, I start putting together a toasted coconut biscuit dough for Simon’s face. I pulverise some shredded coconut in the blender, then start toasting it in a pan.

I drop into a squat, stare at my biscuit canvas for a minute—it’s staying nice and flat, which is good—then continue working on the small details. I carve out an oval for his face, some palm trees using a makeshift stencil (literally just a piece of stiff paper), and mix blue and white buttercream for the waves.

My blueprint for this biscuit has twelve pages. I hadn’t even planned this bake before the competition started, knowing I’d have to redo it when I got my assignment anyway. 

I’ve made this blasted biscuit portrait _four_ times this week. Luckily I had four little chefs eager to eat the rejects.

They gave us photos of our subjects so that we could practice, along with a brief list of their interests. I pull out Simon’s headshot from my shirt’s front pocket and stare at it. (I’ve been carrying it around all week and glancing at it periodically.) (I’ve convinced myself that it’s to make sure my biscuit portrait will be perfect, but it’s a bald-faced lie.) He’s holding a wooden spoon and sending an easy grin the camera’s way, blue eyes crinkling at the edges. _So many freckles._

I’ve never been able to do justice to his face in biscuit form. But I think I’ll get it right this time.

* * *

**Simon**

I have Baz.

Of course I have Baz. The one person I _didn’t_ befriend last week. The one person who I hacked off with my idiotic hairdryer stunt.

I’m almost worried I’ll fuck up his face and make him ugly or something. He’ll come for my blood, he will.

In my portrait, Baz is still wearing his tie, of course—I’m cutting out a tie-shaped biscuit right now—but I’m giving him some posh sunglasses as well. Orange zest and cinnamon biscuit for the backdrop, with a light gingerbread for his face. Orange blossom buttercream and vanilla nutmeg royal icing. I prefer royal icing to buttercream, but I think it’ll be finicky, especially in the tent where it’s humid as hell right now. I think most people are doing a combination.

Baz needs to loosen up, so I’m sending him to Las Vegas.

I’ve never even been to Vegas, but if I’ve ever met someone in need of a drunken night out and a party with an abundance of strippers, it’s him. I’m making the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign out of biscuit, along with some trees, the Luxor pyramid, and another generic hotel with loads of windows.

He’s making brown macarons behind me. I wonder who he has. 

I’d practiced the giant biscuit canvas before this week, but I only made the full thing once since we got our assignments on Sunday—and it fell apart. Here’s hoping my royal icing holds this time. (Maybe I should have brought the oh-so-obnoxious hairdryer. I could use the ‘cool’ setting.)

Everyone is being super secretive about their assignments, since we were told it’s meant to be a surprise. Around the tent, the hosts and judges are conversing with everyone in whispers. The camera crew has brought extra microphones. It’s almost eerie how quiet it is.

I told myself I wouldn’t be one of those sods who lies on the floor for forty minutes watching their oven, but here I am. On my stomach, head propped on my hands, just staring at my biscuit canvas. I can’t afford to burn it—but it has to be sturdy enough to stand up on an easel and support all of the decorations. 

“Simon?” I hear Baz’s voice above me. When I twist my head to look, he’s leaning across his station, looking down his long nose at me. Always picking me apart. “Are you really just laying there?”

“Can’t let my biscuit burn, can I?”

“Waste of time,” he says. “Don’t you have decorations to make?” He cranes his neck to look at my table, but I’ve covered most of what I’ve made so far with a gingham cloth.

“You’re one to talk,” I say. “Popping squats yesterday like you were at the gym.”

He shrugs elegantly. “This arse doesn’t just happen by itself, Snow.”

I sputter and nearly get a face full of carpet. Baz starts laughing too, covering his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He’s trying not to smile but failing miserably, twin lines forming at the corners of his mouth like parentheses.

“What’s so funny?” Ebb’s at his station in an instant, stealing a scrap of biscuit to eat.

“Simon is on the ground,” Baz says. He shakes his head at me. If I didn’t know better I’d say his tone was endearing.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325635576/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325810772/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325810762/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50324967018/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325635486/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50324966968/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50324966943/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50324966913/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325635446/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50325635431/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Baz**

I’m convinced that Penelope Bunce’s pot is not full of boiling sugar, but rather a witch’s potion. The world’s stickiest witch’s potion. Dark magic. That would explain why none of her biscuit pieces are falling off, while the rest of us are suffering in cascading-biscuit hell.

She’s made what looks like London Bridge out of biscuits, except it’s falling down. (I’m certain it’s falling down on purpose—her biscuit glue would never falter like that.) And who I think is Shepard, in her portrait, holding a selfie stick that juts out from the canvas, 3D-like, complete with a biscuit iPhone. 

Damn it all, Penny. Week two and she’s already showing the rest of us up.

“It’s like magic,” I say, watching as she adjusts the selfie stick. It must be six inches long. It’s defying gravity. “What’s your secret?”

She holds up a bag full of a mysterious whitish substance. “Acacia gum powder,” she says. “Works like a charm.”

Too late to experiment for me. Now if only my royal icing would _behave._

I’m frosting this biscuit like my life depends on it. I’m decent at decorative icing, I’ve got a good eye for detail, and I think it comes off more impressive than what some people are doing, which is colouring white-frosted biscuit pieces with edible paint.

“Five minutes!” Fiona calls. “Remember, your biscuit masterpieces must be able to be displayed vertically on the gingham easel!”

“It’s not gingham,” Ebb tells her.

“You should know better, Ebb,” Fiona says. “We tack gingham on to everything here, as a blanket adjective.”

Biscuit Simon looks good. It doesn’t look exactly like Simon—the macaron curls and little face I’ve iced create too “cute” of an image—but it is recognisable. (As a… round Simon. Squishy Simon.) I seem to have gotten all the pieces to stick and I’m hoping it stays that way. 

I dust Biscuit Simon’s cheeks with a bit of pink and draw on his freckles with a food marker, stick miniature chocolate coconut truffles to the palm trees, then step back and look at the whole thing. Timer’s at two minutes, and I’ve managed to finish early while some bakers look like they might not finish at all. 

I consult my blueprint one last time to make sure I didn’t miss anything, then send a self-satisfied grin in the biscuit’s direction. _We did it, Squishy Simon._

* * *

**Simon**

Two minutes left. Most of my pieces are in place, but I’m scrambling to finish. It’s hot as balls in here, and every time I stick the _Welcome to Las Vegas_ sign up on the canvas, it slides down. I pin the biscuits together with one hand and dig around my pocket with the other.

I pull out the photo of Baz so I can compare it to the biscuit face I’ve crafted for him. It’s more than a bit crumpled by this point—I’ve been carrying it around all week and studying it every so often. I even pinned it up above my desk when I was drafting field reports this week. (For research.) (For the biscuit portrait.) (Definitely not because he’s got his hair down and is wearing a tie covered in little cupcakes.)

Biscuit Baz looks decent. I got his infernal eyebrows right, at least.

Las Vegas is hot, right? It’s okay if the buildings are a little droopy…

“And time!” Fiona calls. “Step away from your bakes. Yes, even you, Dev.”

The green room is tense and mostly silent before judging. I’m imagining my biscuit pyramid slowly sliding down the canvas, leaving a trail of sugar glue in its wake…

We’re back in the tent for judging before I can work myself into a full-on panic over my melting sugar, and I’m relieved to see that the buildings haven’t slid down _too_ much. They’re doing the judging in a round robin style, so Agatha will go first, then whoever her subject was will go, and so on.

Her biscuit selfie portrait of Trixie is simple but attractive, with crisp lines and pastel colours. “Trixie’s info sheet mentioned she likes rock climbing,” Agatha explains at the front. “So here she is, having just hiked the Matterhorn.”

Trixie’s got Dev, who is absolutely decked out in intricately piped flowers at the botanic gardens. Dev has Niall, but the biscuit looks more like a Pollock painting than a baked good. 

“What…” Pat says. She pauses, lost for words. The bake doesn’t look bad, exactly, but Niall’s face is a bit terrifying. It’s 3-D, like a death mask of his face. “What?”

“This is ingenious, but hard to decipher,” David says, waving his hand at the biscuit. He chuckles. “Like an abstract expressionist Niall.”

“Let’s hope it tastes good,” Pat says. (It’s made of brandy snap, and it does, which is probably Dev’s saving grace.)

Niall has Elspeth, and his biscuit portrait is surprisingly good; he’s put her in front of a haunted castle in Transylvania, and the details are perfect, down to the red streak and spider barrette in her hair. The spider looks like it could crawl right off the biscuit.

Elspeth has made Minos sailing, though not just anywhere, because it’s Elspeth—her idea of fun must involve the looming threat of imminent death. So of course he’s in the Bermuda Triangle, with a tentacled sea monster reaching up to sink his ship. It’s creepy, but also kind of gorgeous.

Minos attempted Philippa on a West End stage, and it’s a disaster—she bursts into tears. Apparently her career was ruined a few years ago when she developed chronic laryngitis. The awkward silence that follows is possibly made even worse when Philippa brings up her creation, Agatha as a princess at Neuschwanstein Castle. The icing isn’t completed, and Agatha gets a bit of a pinched look on her face but doesn’t say anything.

Since we’ve come full circle, they skip to Penny. She’s got Shepard, and her biscuit is fucking fantastic. “This is the _London Bridge is Falling Down_ biscuit,” she says. “It was originally just London Bridge, since Shepard is an engineer, but I changed it because he apparently can’t do basic maths.”

“Hey!” Shepard yells from the back, but he’s laughing.

Turns out Shepard has Penny in turn. 

“Now, that wasn’t meant to happen,” Fiona complains. “You’re breaking the chain.”

“The hat knew what it was doing,” Ebb replies. “Look at this masterpiece.”

“Tell us about your biscuit selfie portrait,” Pat says.

“Sticking with the American theme,” Shepard says, which prompts a collective groan from the hosts. “Well, y’all said to send our subjects on vacation! So here’s Penny in my truck, in my favourite part of northern Kansas—where I used to go storm chasing–”

“Sorry, what?” David asks.

“Storm chasing!” Shepard says brightly. He points at a sugar-spun tornado in the background. “You find a tornado, and you drive after it.”

“I have never heard of that,” Pat says faintly. “First the cornfield… birth, and now this?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he responds. They do try it—the biscuit, not the storm chasing—and apparently red pickup trucks are delicious.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50327252883/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Simon**

Only two people are left: me and Baz. Which means… we have each other. Of fucking _course_ we do.

I watch Baz carefully carry his biscuit up to the front and set it on the easel. I can’t even contain the joy at seeing myself in biscuit format—I’m sure I’m grinning like an idiot. I’m glad Baz’s back is to me because I think I might combust from the cuteness of this version of my face. He made my hair out of _macarons._ “I can’t even handle it,” I whisper to the cameras. “It’s so adorable.”

So maybe he doesn’t hate me _that_ much, because he’s made a smashing Biscuit Simon. And apparently it tastes good, too. (I’m eyeing one of those macarons to eat later, if he’ll let me.)

I make eye contact with Baz when I pick my biscuit up as he heads back to his station, and he raises that _goddamn_ eyebrow at me.

“I’ve sent Baz to Vegas,” I tell the judges after setting down the portrait. Luxor Resort is inching downwards at an excruciating pace. _Just stay up a minute longer, buddy._ “You know, to, er… party.”

The urge to turn around is so strong. I _have_ to see Baz’s reaction to this… 

I should pay attention to what the judges are saying. Patty is complimenting the Welcome sign. David says the construction could use some work.

I have to _look._

I glance over my shoulder. Baz must not see me looking, because the way he’s smiling is so soft and unguarded that it catches me by surprise.

Penny wins Star Baker, of course—I thought it might be Baz or Agatha, but the world’s strongest biscuit glue apparently can’t be beat. Philippa’s been eliminated. It was more about timing than anything, which is scary because that’s definitely not my strong point, either—I might have to start planning my bakes more.

It’s only mid-afternoon, yet I’m exhausted when we’re finally let outside after filming is over. I scrunch my face up; my muscles are sore from keeping up my camera face. We end up all sitting at the picnic benches, continuing the Biscuit Selfie Portrait Swap by gifting our bakes to our subjects.

“Well,” I ask Baz, holding up my biscuit canvas, “what did you think?”

His eyes sweep over the portrait. “It’s passable.”

“Liar. You love it.”

He purses his lips. “You have no proof.”

I pry off the biscuit tie (covered in stars) and hand it to him. “Here, try it.”

Instead of eating it, he holds the tiny tie up to his neck and looks down in amusement. “I’ll have to add this one to my collection.”

I scowl. “If you don’t eat your face, I will. You’re _delicious,_ all right?”

Baz snorts a laugh. “Do you even realise how that sounds?”

My face is burning as my words catch up with me, but I refuse to back down. I pry Biscuit Baz off my portrait and maintain eye contact with a slightly horrified Baz as I bite the head off. 

“Two can play at that game, Snow.” Baz plucks his adorable Biscuit Simon from the canvas and neatly snaps his head off. “Cheers.” We clink our headless biscuits together, trying not to laugh as we eat them.

* * *

* * *

**Episode Summary**

**Baker**

| 

**Signature: Regional Biscuits**

| 

**Technical: Palmiers**

| 

**Showstopper: Biscuit Selfie Portrait Swap**  
  
---|---|---|---  
  
Agatha 

| 

Lemon White Chocolate Aberffraws

| 

1st

| 

“Mind Over Matterhorn” - Trixie’s Victorious Climb  
  
Baz

| 

“Southampton” Lavender and Earl Grey Shortbread Biscuits

| 

2nd

| 

Sunny Simon in a Tropical Paradise  
  
Dev

| 

Turmeric, Caraway, and Mango Goosnargh Biscuits

| 

11th

| 

“Abstract Expressionist” Niall   
  
Elspeth

| 

“Bloody Eyeball” Red Currant and Blueberry Chorley Cakes 

| 

3rd

| 

Minos and the Mysterious Bermuda Triangle Creature  
  
Minos

| 

Chocolate Hazelnut Cornish Shortbread

| 

6th

| 

Philippa the Star at West End  
  
Niall

| 

Apple Cider Empire Biscuits

| 

9th

| 

Elspeth at Bran Castle, Transylvania  
  
Penny

| 

Yorkshire Chai Gingernut and Lime Sandwich Biscuits

| 

5th

| 

“London Bridge is Falling Down” ft. Shepard the Engineer  
  
Philippa

| 

Northern Irish Fifteens with a Twist

| 

7th

| 

Princess Agatha at Neuschwanstein Castle  
  
Shepard

| 

“American” Cornmeal and Fennel Digestives

| 

8th

| 

Penny Learns how to Chase Storms in Kansas  
  
Simon

| 

Sea-Salt and Caramel “Aberffraw Creams"

| 

10th

| 

Baz at a Night Out with the Lads in Vegas  
  
Trixie

| 

Baa-ra Brith Biscuits

| 

4th

| 

Flower Power with Dev at the National Botanic Gardens of Wales  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Hit me up on Twitter [@LoverScone](https://twitter.com/LoverScone) or [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/scone-lover) if you want a Tweet cameo!
> 
>  **Chapter 2 Recipes**  
>  \- [Baz’s lavender shortbread.](https://cookingmywaythroughcarryon.tumblr.com/post/612506178000486400/lavender-shortbread) Recipe by CSCB [@cookingmywaythroughcarryon](https://cookingmywaythroughcarryon.tumblr.com/)  
> \- Goose… geese? [Inspiration for Dev’s Goosnargh biscuits](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/antony-turmeric-caraway-goosnargh-biscuits-with-mango-chilli-jam/)  
> \- [Shep’s American take on digestives](https://www.thehomesteadgarden.com/cornmeal-fennel-seed-digestive-biscuits/)  
> \- [Inspiration for Trixie’s Baa-ra Brith biscuits](https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/bara_brith_sheep_54510)  
> \- Elspeth’s [Chorley Cakes](https://www.butcherbakerblog.com/2010/10/09/chorley-cakes/), though sadly these ones aren’t decorated to look like bloody eyeballs  
> \- [Inspiration for Penny’s Yorkshire Chai Lime Gingernuts](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/luke-yorkshire-gingernuts-with-lime/)  
> \- [Inspiration for Niall’s Empire Biscuits](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/briony-apple-cider-empire-biscuits/)  
> \- [Palmier Recipe](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-classic-french-palmiers-138822)
> 
>   
> Some helpful visualizations for Biscuit Selfie Portraits:  
> \- [Biscuit Selfie Portrait of the Biscuit Selfie Portraits.](https://twitter.com/BritishBakeOff/status/1034533852792987649) (S9, E1)  
> \- [Manon biscuit selfie](https://images.app.goo.gl/bYmrwsszHtHR7SrL6)  
> \- [Dan's ... baby](https://images.app.goo.gl/vpK9yKExhXwQNHbd8)  
> \- [This inspired Dev's nightmare mask](https://images.app.goo.gl/Q5urjMzN3PuJfYTo9)


	3. Bread Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's hope the bakers don't break down and c-rye as they face a stuffed signature, a technical challah-ing their names, and a Showstopper that's half bread, half balancing act. Will they prove themselves by rising to the challenge?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's [Tumblr post!](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/630476027339096064/the-great-watford-bake-off-chapter-3)
> 
> Click to the end notes for recipes, plus a full chart with all the bakes and rankings (spoilers!) for this week.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) and [ashspren,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) and thanks to selkie as always for your amazing art and for working on this ridiculous project with me ❤️

**EPISODE THREE: BREAD WEEK**

**September 23, 2020**

**INTRO**

_[Overhead shot of EBB and FIONA, who are cloud watching in WATFORD PARK.]_

EBB: That one looks like a loaf of bread.

FIONA: That one’s a bun.

EBB: Look, a baguette.

FIONA: There’s some naan, too.

EBB: This one looks like a burger bap.

FIONA: Aren’t these all just various circles and ovals?

EBB: Yep.

_[They both look to the camera.]_

FIONA: It’s bread week.

EBB: Let’s hope it’s not too crumby.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710627/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Baz**

I step out onto the train platform, turn left, and come face to face with Simon Snow. He looks shocked to see me, which is moronic considering I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. “Baz. Uh, hi.”

“Evening, Snow.” I nod toward the exit and we start walking together.

He keeps sneaking confused glances at me. “What are you doing here?”

I nearly throw my hands up in exasperation. “In case you’ve somehow forgotten, we’re in a baking competition together.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I meant– you don’t take this train, usually.”

I hadn’t expected him to be that perceptive. “I don’t,” I agree.

His eyes narrow as if he’s waiting for me to explain, but I just ignore him and step onto the escalator. He opens his mouth and closes it, then bristles, and finally I take pity on him and meet his eyes. “Yes?”

He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that says _Cornwall Seal Sanctuary_ under a brown leather jacket, and he smells like the sea. I’m positive he’s going to ask where I’ve been (Hampshire, not that it’s any of his business), but instead he says, “Did you eat the whole biscuit selfie?”

I hold back a grin. That’s right, we’d gifted them to each other. “My siblings helped,” I admit. 

“You have siblings?”

“Four. Little gremlins,” I mutter. 

Simon laughs. “They must love your sweets.”

“Who doesn’t?” He shakes his head at my smug expression. “And what about the fate of your biscuit selfie, Snow?”

“Ate the whole thing,” he says cheerily. 

“Of course you did.”

There’s a car waiting for us to bring us to the hotel when we step out of Watford train station. Once we’re inside, I glance at Simon’s seal shirt and then, knowing it’s a bad idea, ask him about his week.

For someone who is so thick sometimes, the scientific terms pouring out of his mouth paint a starkly different picture. Most of it is incomprehensible to me, but it strikes me that Simon is a man who is so deadly passionate about his job _and_ his baking hobby. Like he’d not settle for anything less—like he has to love anything he’s doing, because he throws his all into it. His blue eyes are lit up, same as when he talks about butter, and it’s positively gorgeous.

“–and I finally got out of the office again after finishing the report,” he says breathlessly. “Got to play with some harbour seals in Cornwall. Ever met a harbour seal, Baz?”

“Er… no?”

His lock screen is a picture of scones—of course it is. He pulls up photos of a misty coast, a colony of fat, mottled grey seals. There’s a picture of Simon hugging one and it’s so precious I have to look away and take a deep, calming breath.

Simon’s shifting closer. His elbow knocks into mine. Christ, this is a nightmare. There must be some rules against this. Even if not, there are a million reasons why fancying the man sitting next to me is a terrible, dreadful idea.

* * *

**INTERVIEWS: TRANSCRIPTION**

SIMON: I’m quite excited for bread week. I think it will be fun, actually; bread is kind of my thing, I’ve always enjoyed making it. … No, I’m not nervous at all! Why would I be?

\---

BAZ: This week is going to be the week from hell, I’m sure of it. … Am I nervous? Of course I am, who wouldn’t be?

\--

NIALL: At home, I’ve been prodding my bread in the center because I know David’s going to do that. Just giving it a nice little poke now and then.

\--

ELSPETH: David’s the expert on bread, and I am a bit worried about what he’ll say. My solution, of course, is to make my bread itself even more scary than Davy…

* * *

**Simon**

“Bread week, bread week,” I hum under my breath. Penny’s laughing at me, shaking her head, her arm looped around my elbow. 

“That excited?”

“David won’t know what hit him,” I tell her. “I love bread. Especially with butter.”

“Well of course, you can’t skip the butter.”

We split off from the aisle when we reach our stations; Penny goes right and I go left. I settle in and check over my ingredients before peeking at Baz’s station—he has a gigantic basket of basil waiting for him. It smells wonderful, all fresh and earthy.

“Morning, bakers!” Ebb announces. She’s wearing a gigantic striped thing that I don’t think can actually be considered a jumper. “Welcome to Bread Week.”

“Now, we’re not sure if you’re aware, but bread is actually quite a big deal to Davy here,” Fiona says.

“So no pressure–”

“But this is your one and only chance to get your dough prodded by David Mage’s digits of doom.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

“And your only chance to _prove_ yourself,” Ebb adds.

“So _dough_ your best,” Fiona says. “For your Signature Challenge today, the judges would like you to bake a bread with a filling.”

“It can be any filling you please,” Ebb supplies. “Sweet, savoury, just no Marmite, please–”

“What have you got against Marmite?”

“Everything!”

Fiona sighs. “The bread can be any shape you wish, as long as the bread is yeasted and the loaf is presented as a single piece. You’ve got three hours. On your marks.”

“Get set…”

“Bake!”

I start working quickly, firing up my oven and setting up my scale. I think I’m bouncing again and possibly humming, but unless Baz says something to me again I couldn’t care less. I fold together my dough, adding a few drops of squid ink for colour. 

While I knead, the hosts and judges make their way over to my station. 

“Simon!” Ebb says. “Now from what I remember, you were quite excited about bread week, weren’t you?”

“I am,” I say. My dough is supremely sticky, and I quickly set a timer so I don’t lose track while speaking and over-knead it.

“That makes one of you in the tent,” Fiona quips. “So what are you making?”

 _“Sepiolida sepiolidae,”_ I answer. 

They blink at me. 

“A squid,” I clarify.

“Oh,” Ebb says. “You could’ve just said.”

“I did!”

“In English.”

I laugh. “It’s a bobtail squid, because they have that round shape,” I explain. “He’s going to be a cute guy. It’s a tear and share loaf, flavoured and dyed with squid ink, to keep the theme, and the tentacles are stuffed with chorizo and manchego.”

“A squid,” Fiona repeats. I nod. “A tear and share squid.” I nod again. “That’s bloody brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

“You seem to have a theme going,” Ebb says, nodding to my seal sanctuary t-shirt.

“It’s quite creative,” Pat says. “I can’t wait to try it.”

I’m naming him Breadward Buntacles.

* * *

**Baz**

“This is a dark chocolate, cinnamon, and chili babka,” I say. 

“Interesting flavours,” Fiona notes. 

“It’s inspired by the Mexican mocha at my favorite coffee shop.”

“And how are you incorporating the filling?” Pat asks.

“I’m making a sort of paste of it,” I explain. “Then I’ll roll this out, spread it on, roll it up, slice it, twist it, and place it in the tin.”

“That’s a couronne,” David points out.

I will die on this hill. I’ve done my research. “No, it’s a babka.”

He fixes me with an intense green-eyed stare that would make lesser men fall to their knees. Not me. I won’t be subjugated by his presumptuous bread-expert glare.

“Now, what is the problem, Davy?” Fiona says.

“A couronne, you twist it and then join it. All you’re doing is folding it open and sticking it in a tin.”

“Then that’s the difference, you just said it,” Fiona cuts in. “It goes in a tin, it’s a babka!”

“See?” I say.

“It’s Baz’s own babka,” Pat says. 

“No, it’s a real babka,” I scowl.

“It’ll taste good, at least.” 

David’s eyes glimmer. “Good luck…” He’s trying not to laugh. “...with your couronne.”

“No need to be grumpy about it,” Pat admonishes.

Maybe it was a bad idea to contest the king of bread. Maybe it’ll come back and bite me in the arse. Oh, well. It’s a _babka._

And a damn delicious one, at that.

* * *

**Penny**

Do I always have to go three steps above and beyond, putting myself through so much more work than necessary and stressing myself to the point of what’s starting to look like an early demise?

Yes. Yes, I do.

It’s kind of a tear and share, except pointier—like a star—and I have four different filling options in front of me. I know I can’t use all of them.

Rather, I _shouldn’t_ use all of them. It’ll be a mess. I can alternate the star limbs…

I have two different colours of bread, sixteen bowls of spices, and…

Fuck. What have I done?

“Penelope!” Ebb says, walking toward me.

“Come back later,” I say.

They laugh, but don’t actually listen to me. (Did I expect them to?) I look up, arrange my features into a smile, and pretend I’m not on the verge of panicking. (Or already panicking.) “I was serious.”

Shockingly, they skip me for the time being and go to Shepard instead. I manage to talk myself out of a mental breakdown by listening to Simon hum “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” across the aisle from me. I’ve settled on two fillings. One is vaguely inspired by _gajar ka halwa—_ a carrot based Indian dessert—and the other is filled with a spiced paneer mixture, though with a blend of cheeses to make it slightly more melty than would be traditional.

The first prove is almost up, so I’m hoping they swing by before I have to fill the bread. It’ll require utmost concentration. But, of course, they’re being held up by a certain very talkative American.

My timer says four minutes and I’ve nothing left to do, really, so I turn around. 

It was a mistake.

“–so I was in third grade, and I read _Charlotte’s Web_ and of course I cried because like, who doesn’t, right? I refused to eat pork for like four years after that. But then I grew up and I realised, pulled pork is freaking delicious.” 

His eyes are absolutely alight. As if he’s hoping his enthusiasm will catch. _(Spoiler alert, Shepard: it won’t. You’re in a tent full of Brits.)_

“Right…” Ebb says. She nods along encouragingly, putting in a valiant effort I’m not sure the conversation deserves.

“Anyway, this bread is basically inspired by a taco I had like three years ago. I think it’s one of the top two tacos of my life actually. I think about that taco a lot.”

Ebb looks like she knows she’s walking into a trap, but forges on. “And… what was in the taco?”

Shepard grins. “Pulled pork, obviously. Barbecue, but Mexican, I guess? With this amazing, like, spicy pineapple slaw and cilantro. From this little food truck—you see, I was grabbing dinner with my friend Wren, we met at college—I mean, uni—well, I do mean college actually—and we went food-truck hopping, because there are probably seven of them within a mile of her house–” 

He stops to take a breath, and Ebb finally cuts in, rescuing us all from the rest of what I’m sure will be a long-winded story with no actual point to it.

“Should I pull up a chair?” She looks to Fiona. “I say, Fi, check the time. I don’t think we’ll have time to talk to anyone else after this.”

Fiona makes a big show of looking at her watch. “Yeah, I’m knackered.” She gives an exaggerated yawn. “Let’s just call it a day. Hey, five minutes, bakers!”

“Wait, _WHAT?!”_ Dev yells. His baking sheet clangs onto his table.

She cackles. “Just joking!”

“You’re an evil witch,” he says.

“Thank you,” she responds.

“I rather think she’s one of the good witches,” Elspeth argues, turning around. She’s often quiet, but apparently the defence of witches is a worthy cause to speak up about. “Like Mother Shipton.”

“I appreciate that comparison,” Fiona says.

“What does that make you, then?” Dev asks Elspeth.

“A kitchen witch, obviously,” she answers, wielding a spatula. “Not entirely good, seeing as I’m constantly at war with the Tooth Fairy.”

Everyone laughs. 

* * *

**Baz**

The bread creations are all impressive.

All, that is, except for mine. 

Simon has made an impossibly detailed squid-ink dyed tear-and-share octopus or something. Trixie’s spread of Welsh baked cheeses surrounded by two breads with about a thousand flavours each inside, sprinkled with flowers and herbs, looks like something out of a magazine entitled _Food Just Rustic-Looking Enough to be Trendy._

Dev’s up. He’s got this cobblestone bread: mini milk buns in a round tin, two different colours with sweet fillings. “They’re well-proved,” David remarks.

“And very round,” Pat adds.

“Why wouldn’t a bun be round?” Ebb says.

“My buns are perfectly round. Always,” Dev supplies.

Patricia takes a bite and compliments the amount of filling. “It’s just right,” she says. “You’ve struck the balance between bread and chocolate.”

And Dev, of course, answers, “No one likes a small, underfilled ball.”

Simon gets a stunning review for his weird squid-thing, and I sit, trying not to fume or be jealous. _He’s awful at pastry_ is how I decide to console myself, which mostly just makes me feel like a petty arsehole.

Apparently it’s perfectly proved. And perfectly risen. And perfectly kneaded, because he apparently has perfectly warm hands.

It is a perfectly difficult feat not to roll my eyes. (Or swoon, a bit. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Anyway, Penny has an orange and gold star, and Shepard has pulled-pork buns that look soft enough to be pillows, and Agatha has this pink-twirled-glitter-braided thing, and I have a mess. It doesn’t matter how well I did last week if I have awful bread; that’s how this show works. You could get Star Baker one week and be tossed out the next.

I’m determined not to be one-upped by Penny _again,_ but it seems to have already happened. I step to the front and present my babka-that-definitely-isn’t-a-couronne. It’s kind of pretty at least, formed into nice spirals. But I think I could have done better than based my bread off a random latte at the coffee shop I like.

I’m a constant disappointment to myself.

I watch Mage cut into the loaf and poke the middle. “It’s underproved,” he says, eyes critical, “but at least it’s baked through. Could’ve used ten more minutes in the proving drawer—see how it’s sunken in the middle, there?”

“Besides the rise, it’s fine,” Patricia says. _Fine._ “Tastes good, at least.”

I think I’m safe. For the time being.

* * *

**INTERVIEWS: TRANSCRIPTION**

\--

DEV: I’m not particularly competent on bread. I’ve got a bit of bread dread. 

\--

AGATHA: David is sure to poke it and say, “overproved, undercooked, underbaked… bad!” And I’m here just trying not to over _think_ it.

\--

PENNY: It’s calm, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just bread. Just… bread… god, the longer I stand out here the less calm I get.

* * *

**Simon**

“Could’ve gone better,” Agatha sighs.

“Could’ve gone worse,” I say.

“That could _not_ have gone worse,” Baz says.

(Where did he even come from? He wasn’t standing here a second ago.)

“Come off it, Baz,” Agatha says. “Yours was fine. Better than mine at least. And a few others.” She subtly glances towards Minos and Niall.

Baz is looking a little sick actually. But he’ll never admit to not being good at bread. Instead he just says, “Well, best try harder in the technical. Any guesses as to what it will be?”

“Bread,” I supply.

“Oh, really?” The eyebrow goes up. “Bread? During bread week? Who knew. I never would have guessed.”

“I was trying to be helpful,” I grumble.

“How is that helpful? I obviously knew it was going to be bread–”

“Stop it.” Agatha rolls her eyes. “Thank you for the insights, Simon. For the record, I think it’s going to be a plaited bread.”

We reenter the tent a few minutes later in absolute silence. Everyone seems to be so nervous for the judgement of David, who has no doubt set this challenge.

“Fiona,” Ebb says, “what’s the worst thing about bread puns?”

“They tend to go quite stale,” Fiona answers, and we all laugh. It helps to break the tense air a little.

“Welcome to your bread technical, bakers,” Ebb says. 

“Today you’ll be making the bread—surprise—that makes the world’s best French toast.”

Oh my god.

_It’s got to be challah._

Agatha was right. I’m not even surprised. She gives me a mysterious smile from across the aisle; it’s like she magicked the challenge into existence. 

“This challenge has been set for you by—surprise—Davy,” Ebb says. “Any words of wisdom, Davy?”

David surveys us for a moment. “Good luck.”

Fiona stares at him, then back at us. “That really wasn’t a word of wisdom.”

“It was two,” he attempts.

“Not really. Anyway, off you go!” As they leave, Fiona asks, “So what are they occupying themselves with today?”

“Why, pole dancing, of course.”

“Right, forgot how _excited_ Davy gets for bread week.” 

A collective groan.

Ebb faces the front. “Alright, bakers! Today, David Mage would love for you to make two perfect _challahs.”_

“If you don’t know what _challah_ is,” Fiona says, pointing at the tent’s exit, “it’s over, and you should leave now. Because you’ve clearly been doing French toast wrong your whole life.”

“You’ve got three hours,” Ebb says.

“Just _challah_ if you need us.”

“We’re only one _chall-ah_ way.”

“And to repeat Davy’s fake words of wisdom in a marginally more relevant way,” Fiona says, _“mazel tov!”_

* * *

**Baz**

It’s a warm day. It’s infernally hot in this tent—I’m surprised the windows aren’t steaming up. All the ovens are on and the proving drawers are heating up.

So my feeling hot all over is perfectly justified.

It has nothing at all to do with Simon kneading his challah in front of me. There’s no reason why that should cause a reaction, after all—he’s just squishing the dough and making these little grunting noises. The way he kneads is full-bodied, almost violent. Nothing glamorous about that.

He starts chatting with Ebb when she comes over. 

“I like kneading dough,” he says. “I’ve knocked drinks over. I’ve hit people in the face with dough. I don’t know if that’s an accepted way of doing it or not—it’s just very satisfying.”

Of course he’s hit people in the face with dough. Because he’s a walking disaster.

I watch him knead another moment. (So that I can compare our techniques—no other reason.) There has to be a secret to what I’m sure will be a perfect rise. He really does put all of his force into it, back muscles tensing, rounded biceps flexing.

(It’s bloody distracting is what it is.)

Anyway, my dough looks nothing like his. He’s already popping it in the proving drawer. I need to snap out of whatever nightmare thirst fever dream this is and actually focus on my bake.

“Come together, won’t you,” I grumble at the lump of golden dough in front of me. I’ve been kneading for six minutes with no discernible changes in texture.

At that moment, of course, Simon turns around. “You say something, Baz?”

“Oh. I was...” There really isn’t a way out of this. “Talking to my dough.”

Unfazed, he gives my bread a once-over. “I see what you mean. Gluten structure’s not fully bonded yet.”

“Right.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. 

He peers at my challah, then at me, blue eyes narrowing. “D’you have cold hands, by any chance?”

“Pardon?”

He steps forward. “Give me your hand.”

“What? No.” My mental and physical states are already tenuous. I’m teetering on the edge of a full breakdown, from desire for a well-ranked bread or a well-ranked baker I can’t tell. I won’t survive this encounter.

He tuts and makes a grab for my hands. I give them to him. (Because I’m weak.)

Simon’s hands are _warm._ More than normal warm—hot. They’re practically burning me up where his fingers envelop my palms. “You’re freezing,” he says.

“And you feel like you have a bloody fever,” I snap.

He gives me an earnest look, raising his eyebrows. “Hot hands. They’re my secret weapon.”

“For bread…” I realise.

“Exactly.” He’s still holding my hands. (Why isn’t he letting go? Should I say something?) “Means I’m balls at everything else though, it just melts. You’ve got nice cold pastry-making hands.”

Er. “Thank you?”

“Not so good for bread, though.” The next instant both of his hands are cupping one of mine, sandwiching them tenderly as if he’s trying to warm up a stick of butter.

“What are you doing?”

“They’re just– so cold.”

“I’m tall,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t get good circulation to my extremities.”

“Then take some of my body heat, you obviously need it desperately for your bread to turn out.”

“I object to this entire operation.” I scowl at him. He smiles at me. Freckle-ly. Bluely. “Why are you even helping me?”

He gives my hand a little rub between his. They’re big and dusted with flour, calloused at four points where his fingers meet his palms. He gives a small laugh, looking down at our joined hands. “You’re my biscuit buddy,” he says. 

I suddenly give a mortifying sort of giggle as well, because this whole situation is ridiculous, isn’t it? “You don’t owe me anything because we were... biscuit buddies,” I point out.

He shrugs, then seems to be satisfied with his warming efforts and gives the back of my hand a little pat. “I’d rather you stay in the tent. Keeps me on my toes, yeah?”

I take my hands back, reluctantly. They _are_ warmer, and tingling all over. “You’re not too bad a challenge yourself, Snow.”

He grins at me again. He’s impossible.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710772/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710752/in/dateposted-public/)

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[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392541386/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Baz**

Grappling with a six-strand braid when your hands are somehow both clammy and warm and your heart is threatening to explode out of your chest is not an enjoyable time. I’ll be the first to say it.

Did he do it on purpose to stir up drama? To gain fan favour? Did he actually want to warm up my hands out of the goodness of his heart? (I mean, it _did_ work.) Or maybe he just wanted an excuse. (I know I did.) (I should end this line of thought, immediately.)

I’m falling behind and running out of time. I should ask to move stations at this point because honestly, can you blame me for being distracted by Simon’s broad fucking shoulders?

I feel like a mess. I’m never a mess. I’m on international television right now, for Christ’s sake. I can’t _afford_ to be a mess. But I’m shaking, nervous, flustered. I take a deep breath and finish plaiting the bread. The loaves looks fine—I’ve made challah before, _once,_ and it was years ago, in uni—but clumsier than I’d have liked. A bit lopsided, to be honest.

Everyone’s put their loaves in to prove already. Shepard’s reclined on the floor, arms behind his head like he’s at the bloody beach. Penelope is pacing and biting her nails. Ahead, Elspeth is literally sketching in a notebook. The cameras are still rolling. This will surely turn into one of those Instagram clip compilations: _Bake Off Without the Baking._

Simon leans against his table, facing halfway towards me. He has an entire stockpile of snacks off to the side. 

I make some adjustments to my challahs and pick up my tray in preparation to pop it in the proving drawer. When I look up again, Simon is…

Well, he’s–

* * *

**Penny**

Simon’s eating a banana.

Baz turns beetroot-red and fumbles his tray. It slips right through his fingers.

* * *

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391918333/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Baz**

Underneath about a thousand layers of stress over the dumpster fire that is currently my challah, it occurs to me that this isn’t a very normal reaction to seeing my fellow baker eat a banana.

I’m utterly fucked.

I should start wearing a blindfold. With my track record today I’d not be surprised if my bread turns out better that way.

I watch my tray crash to the floor as if in slow motion. My heart stops as it hits the ground with a deafening _crash._

The challah’s okay, luckily. Just a bit deformed, but at this point I can’t decide if that’s made it look worse or better than it already was. I’m intensely aware of all the heads turned my direction, the cameras trained on my shocked expression.

Of course Simon runs over to help immediately, banana in hand. I wave him off and salvage what I can of the bread. Put it in the proving drawer. Lean heavily at my station and contemplate all the life choices that led me to this moment.

Whilst I can’t exactly change being gay or being on Bake Off, I can school my reactions to Simon. And the easiest way to do that is to make him stop being nice to me—stop smiling at me, stop helping me, stop holding my fucking hand…

It’s not ideal, trying to put an end to that. But this is a competition, after all.

* * *

**Challah Technical Rankings**

Baker

| 

Rank  
  
---|---  
  
Agatha

| 

8th  
  
Baz

| 

10th  
  
Dev

| 

6th  
  
Elspeth

| 

3rd  
  
Minos

| 

7th  
  
Niall

| 

9th  
  
Penny

| 

5th  
  
Shepard

| 

4th  
  
Simon

| 

1st  
  
Trixie

| 

2nd  
  
* * *

**Baz**

I am about to be sent home and it’s all because of Simon Snow.

I know, logically, that it isn’t his fault. He can’t help how devastating he is. 

And yet. 

I really want nothing to do with him after this. Not if it costs me my place here in the tent.

“I think that was as bad as it could possibly have gone,” I tell the interviewer. “I think I would have done better had I set the tent on fire, to be honest.”

Penny is waiting for me when I come back out to the picnic tables. She grabs my elbow and starts dragging me on a brisk walk around the tent. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Did you know,” she says, “that in 1508, the French village of Autun put the town rats on trial for eating their crops?”

That’s not what I expected her to say. “What, really?”

As she launches into a minutes-long lecture about the rats who failed to show up to court and were consequently issued their own lawyer and a formal court summons, I find myself oddly grateful for the distraction. Somehow, she knew just what I needed.

* * *

**Wednesday, September 23, 2020**

**Group Chat: Prepare to Meet Your Baker**

**[Simon + Baz + Penny]**

Simon: hey baz

Simon: hey

Simon: basilton

Baz: What

Simon: guess what im doing

Baz: What

Simon: eating a banana ;)

Penny: OH MY GOD

Baz: … 

Baz: It’s too soon to joke about that.

Simon: its been 6 MONTHS

Baz: THE WOUND IS FRESH.

Baz: I HAD TO RELIVE THAT HELLISH MOMENT LAST NIGHT.

Penny: It’s never too soon to joke about the banana

Penny: It was the moment we all knew <3 

Baz: Yes, through my utter mortification.

Baz: That banana was my undoing.

Baz: The Insidious Banana.

Penny: Well the so-called Insidious Banana was the catalyst for your relationship so

Simon: EXACTLY

Simon: anyway it’s a pretty big banana

Baz: ...

Baz: Okay fine I’m coming over

* * *

  
  


**Simon**

“Welcome back to the tent, bakers,” Ebb says, clapping her hands together. The sleeves of her garish striped-sweater thing flop around. “It’s time… for your Showstopper Challenge.”

“Should be quite a sophisticated bread,” Fiona says. “The upper crust, if you will.” 

“Let’s hope none of your plans go a-rye. Today, your task is to create a three-dimensional, freestanding bread sculpture,” Ebb announces.

“It must be at least twelve inches tall,” Fiona says, “and include three colours or more.”

“The twist: you can only use natural ingredients to colour the bread. We don’t condone any of those junky, artificial dyes during the holy week of bread.”

“This bread is all about the design,” Fiona says. “It should be impressive.”

“Basically,” Ebb says, “the judges want it to be the best thing since… er, what’s that phrase, Fi?”

Fiona fakes utter confusion. “Can’t remember. Anyway, five hours on the clock. On your marks…”

“Get ready to _roll–”_

“Bake!”

I’m not stressed about this bake, particularly—just the structure of it. Which is to say, one of the main elements of the bake. The bread is fine. Perfect. Delicious. But getting it to stay standing, that’s the challenge. It was intended to be constructed with steel pipes, and here I am attempting a breadstick replica.

Makes me feel like a right nimwit, the level of grief these fucking pieces of bread have given me.

I start on the largest piece first, a flat expanse of green focaccia that forms the grass. I’m going to intentionally underprove it, just enough so that it forms a denser crumb to give my structure a solid foundation. (But not so much that it sags in the middle, god forbid.) Since my other breads are a tad sweet, I’m flavouring it with matcha tea—it gives it a perfect earthy taste. Just like grass.

As I mix the green dough and begin to knead, the judges make their way over. “Simon,” Ebb greets, “you’ve just won the technical, so you’re the frontrunner here.”

“No pressure,” Fiona says.

“Tell us about your bake,” David says, eyeing my green dough. I’m pleased enough with it—the colour looks right grassy.

“I am making the Singing Ringing Tree,” I say, “out of bread. So it probably won’t sing and ring. But it’ll look impressive, I hope.”

The declaration doesn’t generate the reaction I’m expecting.

“Sorry, the what?” Patricia asks.

“The Singing Ringing Tree,” I repeat. 

“That’s got a nice _ring_ to it,” Fiona quips. 

“It’s a sound sculpture in Lancashire,” I explain. “Part of the Panopticons. Looks like a tornado?”

They’re all staring at me blankly.

“You’ve really never heard of it?” I rifle around my bread blueprints to find my reference photo and hold it up. It’s a gorgeously designed sculpture, close to a home I lived in when I was a kid, and it makes the most haunting sound—like gasping, like a fading breath. I used to find it so creepy. (Still do. But now I think it’s kind of cool, as well.)

“Doesn’t… _ring_ a bell,” Fiona says, and she and Ebb cackle. 

“Well anyway,” I say loudly, “the grass base is matcha flavoured. And then the sculpture will be small stacked… square bun… crumpet… things, on the bottom, and alternating blue and grey breadsticks to make the tornado shape up top.”

“Grey with charcoal, I’m guessing?” David asks. I nod. “How are you doing blue?” 

“Spirulina powder.”

“How’s that taste…?”

“Fine.” I wave it off. “Bit like seaweed, but I usually add some extra sweetener to compensate. It balances out.”

“This is very ambitious,” Patricia notes, nodding at the photo. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I put the focaccia in the proving drawer once they move on to Agatha. And then as I start on the buns, I mentally prepare myself to make _forty fucking breadsticks._

* * *

**Ebb**

Fiona and I place bets for Technical Winners and Star Baker every weekend, and so far I’ve won five for five. She says I have a creepy intuition, but the truth is I used to work at a boarding school. I can tell which kids have done their homework.

We’re making our rounds, keeping the bread puns rolling. Although some have been supplied for us, and even Fiona grudgingly saluted them: Trixie’s making a centerpiece of pink and yellow roses called Flour Power, Niall’s got an Iron Throne entitled “You Know Nothing, John Dough” (my personal favourite), and Dev has an ambitious rainbow—sorry, _Grainbow._

We’ve just finished up with Shepard (at long last. Though secretly I love his long-winded stories), who’s crafting Cornbread the Thanksgiving Turkey. Apparently it’s a book reference, though none of us got it. His creation has a round yellow cornbread body filled with stuffing, feathers made of red and yellow loaves, and a head of braided dough.

We’re at Penny’s station and she’s explaining her Col-dough-sseum. She slides her blueprint towards us, but it looks… well, not exactly like the Colosseum. 

“Why’s there a tiny bread village inside?” I ask. “And not, you know, gladiators.”

“In Medieval times,” she explains, “the Colosseum was still in use, but not as an arena. Instead, it had homes, workshops, and even stables. It was basically rented out like an apartment complex.”

That’s right, she’s a history professor. “Wow, I had no idea.”

“Most people don’t. That’s why it’s whole in my sculpture,” she continues, gesturing at the unbroken circle shape. “The earthquake that caused its collapse wasn’t until 1349.”

“Well, thanks for the history lesson,” Fiona says. 

“You learn something new every day.” I turn to the camera. “Children, take notes.”

Next up is Baz, across the aisle. Fiona will swear there’s some rhyme or reason to the order we go in, but it’s mostly based on who looks the least stressed at the moment. (Or the most stressed, depending on whether the episode is lacking in drama.) 

He’s a strange sort. I’d never have pegged him for a baker, but under the surface he’s wildly passionate about what he does. Just likes to pretend he’s not. Anyway, he’s acting like he’s not on the verge of a meltdown even though he didn’t do so well in the last two challenges. Positive reinforcement and terrible puns are in order.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710707/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391847958/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391847943/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391847933/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392541351/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392541341/in/dateposted-public/)

> * * *

**Simon**

I can hear Baz speaking to the cameras behind me before the judges get to his station. “This is charcoal,” he says, “which is a nightmare, because it gets absolutely everywhere.”

He’s right. It’s all over my hands. And my trousers. And possibly my face.

“It sticks to everything and I don’t want to get it on my jumper,” he continues, sounding increasingly concerned. Nearly in hysterics. “If this gets on my clothes, I’ll be _very_ unhappy.”

I almost laugh out loud at how uptight he sounds. Who cares about jumpers that much? Maybe it’s cashmere. One million thread count or whatever.

Though he’s right—it seriously never comes out. I’m planning to use this shirt as a kitchen rag when I’m done with it.

I don’t know what he’s making. And I don’t dare turn around because ever since he dropped his bread yesterday he’s been scowling at me, as if I’m personally responsible for how badly he’s doing this week. Like it’s apparently entirely my fault, though I fail to see how my actions had any correlation to his botched challah. If anything, I helped him by warming up his hands! It was unfortunate that he dropped his tray, but I can’t imagine that I had anything to do with it. The last thing I want is to be accused of sabotage.

When I told Penny about how he was acting, she laughed for two minutes straight. Then she took a look at my bewildered expression and burst into a fit of laughter again. After that, she patted me on the shoulder and said not to worry and that I hadn’t done anything, like I was a child who was worried I was in trouble.

I really don’t understand what Baz’s problem is. Maybe he has a weird thing about touching? I guess I won’t try to hold his hands again. I mean warm up his hands. Whatever.

* * *

**Baz**

I’ll be damned if I don’t make the best Showstopper in this tent. I don’t have three colours, I have five. I’m making twelve different loaves of bread, and they all include either braiding, twisting, or intricate carving. Will I finish in time? Do I care, at this point?

“This looks like a war zone,” Fiona says when they arrive at my station. I’ll admit, it’s not my typical tidy setup. But I’ve already determined I’m a bit of a mess this weekend; I’m resigned to my fate.

“A warzone for paintball,” Ebb says. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Making my life difficult,” I say. My red beet dough is in the proving drawer already; I’m working on green (with basil, of course). 

“You’ve done this before, right?” Fiona asks.

“Of course,” I say brusquely. I’ve made it once. It was a mistake attempting it after work: I fell asleep halfway through, burnt my bread, and set off the fire alarm. I ended up just switching off the oven and going to bed, then continuing the following evening.

“Red, blue, green, and yellow,” Ebb counts out. “Not to mention plain. What are you baking, a circus tent?”

“Not quite.” I quirk an eyebrow and slide my reference photo over. “You recognise this, right?”

Fiona considers the image for a moment. “Yeah, of course. Willy Wonka’s factory?”

I laugh. “Close, but no cigar. Ebb?”

“I stand by the circus tent idea.”

“I’ve been there,” Fiona says. “In Moscow. What’s it called, again? It’s a cathedral, right?”

I grin. “Saint _Basil’s_ Cathedral.”

Low hanging fruit, but the options for somehow relating your personality to a loaf of bread are limited.

Fiona explodes into a high cackle. “You vain git.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“How on earth are you planning to do this?” Ebb asks.

“With a divine miracle,” I say. “Square loaves here–” I point to the base of the cathedral, on my sketch– “twisty buns on top. It’ll be held together with toothpicks and my hopes, dreams, and prayers. Anyway, if this goes badly, I’ll just go outside and cry afterwards.”

“The park’s a perfect spot for a good cry,” Ebb agrees sagely.

“I’ve been waiting to test it out,” I deadpan. “You know, that little nook by the stream–”

“I know the one exactly.”

“Perfect ambience for a nice wail, isn’t it?”

“It’s where I host all my sobbing sessions,” she says. “Next time I’ll invite you along. Unless this goes well, of course. Which for your sake I hope it does.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go,” Fiona says, “before he cries in here instead.”

“How dare you, I’d never.”

She gives me a little salute as they move on to Dev’s station. 

I focus on avoiding an untimely death by bread-cathedral—and ignoring Simon Snow to the best of my abilities.

* * *

**Simon**

I’m heading toward an untimely death by bread-sculpture.

This monstrosity won’t stay up. It’s going to end up looking like a pile of twigs. I could have made any one of my other ideas (breadcycle, castle, bloody _Sconehenge)_ but no. 

No, I had to play fucking Jenga with breadsticks.

It’s nearly done, now. Everyone’s assembling by carefully poking dowels into their bread loaves to attach them. I’ve been on my feet for four and a half hours and I might actually collapse. 

Mine is one of the more complex ones, but Penny might give me a run for my money. Same with Baz; from what I’ve seen, he’s got like a million colours of bread going. I like Elspeth’s, as well—she’s made an entire cauldron out of bread, filled it with multicoloured breadsticks and a bread ladle, and jauntily perched a round bread pumpkin on its edge.

By the time Fiona calls five minutes, I think I’m happy with mine. It really does look like a tornado, in a yeasted sort of way. The breadsticks teeter dangerously as Dev walks past; it upsets the fucking bouncy floor, and my sculpture by extension. “Light steps!” I bark, my heart stopping for a split second as the structure wobbles.

He freezes in a tableau out of a cartoon, one leg in the air. “Light steps,” he repeats, and performs an exaggerated tiptoe back to his station.

God. Carrying it up to the front is going to be a brand new challenge on its own. _You’ve had the Signature, Technical, and Showstopper—now get ready for the Physical. Who will emerge victorious in the battle of Bread Balancing?_

“And that’s time! Step away from your bakes!”

The sigh of relief around the tent is audible. I stumble away from my creation and immediately sink to the floor, certain my feet won’t hold me for another second. Penny is splayed on the ground like a starfish—it’s reminiscent of _Asterias rubens._

“I need a stiff drink,” Dev mutters from somewhere behind me.

“Seconded,” Baz says wearily.

Shepard’s the only person still looking somewhat chipper. (How?) And he quite literally has to shepherd us all to the green room. Fitting, that.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710657/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392710652/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Baz**

I’m not even surprised when Simon wins Star Baker—again. I’m the least surprised. I was more surprised when the sun rose this morning. I was more surprised when Ebb and Fiona made bad puns today. Sliced fucking bread is more surprising than Simon Snow winning Star Baker this week.

Anyway, it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it. He does. 

I can’t really find it in myself to feel happy for him, which makes me feel kind of awful, but not awful enough to genuinely feel bad about it. Especially because they haven’t yet announced who’s going home…

Penelope Bunce is holding my hand. Why the _fuck_ is Penelope Bunce holding my hand? It’s actually a bit comforting as I wait to hear my fate, so I let her keep holding it. Maybe I even squeeze back. (It’s off the record.)

I think it must be between me, Niall, and Minos. Minos’ babka bread for the Signature was soggy, if I remember correctly—David hates that. And his Great Wheat Shark was… not so great. When Niall was up for his Iron Throne, Pat said, “It looks a bit simple.” To which he responded, without a second’s hesitation, “it reflects my personality.” 

They loved my cathedral. Even if Fiona made a dirty joke about the shape of the domes. So maybe… despite my underproved couronne _(babka,_ damn it) and spectacular catastrophe of a challah–

I shouldn’t allow such hopes. Not until they say it.

Do I even consider Penelope Bunce a friend? I’d say no, except I think of leaving the tent now and never seeing her again, and _oh–_ there it is. The telltale twist of care in my chest. Fuck it all. I squeeze her hand back with reckless abandon.

I shouldn’t make a habit of this, this hand-holding thing.

“The person leaving us today,” Ebb says, expression sorrowful, “is…”

The world stops. The cameras catch close-ups of our faces. Simon Snow looks at me, with pity or guilt or genuine concern I can’t tell.

And then:

“Minos.” 

I breathe. I look sad like I’m supposed to, though mostly I just feel sweet relief coursing through my veins. I mean, I am sad—he’s a cool guy. Greek Navy Veteran who now spends his days baking cupcakes for his motorbike buddies. It takes grit, being in the competition at his age.

I feel like I barely slipped past the mark. One more mistake and it could have been me. When I step outside to give my interview, my emotions are mostly replaced by a fierce desire to prove myself. To show that I belong here, not because I can scrape by, but because I can outshine everyone else. 

I’ll practice next week’s bakes a thousand times if I have to. I was top of my class in school. I have a track record to uphold. 

—

“Hey. You alright?”

Simon’s paused in the hallway as we enter our rooms, one hand flat on his half-open door. 

I’m not feeling any particularly positive emotions toward him right now, even if he does have flour in his hair and smears of charcoal powder on his nose and cheek. He looks like one of those street urchins from _Oliver!_

“Fine,” I say frostily.

He stares at me, as if waiting for more. (And it seems he’s not going to go into his room until I do.)

“Rough day,” I finally add.

His brow creases earnestly. “Sorry. About– about your bread. Can’t have been easy.”

I start to thaw a bit.

Simon runs a hand through his curls, sending a dusting of flour up like a halo. “Anyway, I’m here if you need me. If-if you need to talk, I mean.”

Forget thawing, I’m basically a puddle at this point. He looks so solemn. And so solid, like something warm to hang onto, to keep me grounded. I catch myself a second later, remind myself that this is the man responsible for my near-demise.

“Thanks,” I finally say stiffly, and bolt into my room.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50392541301/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391847898/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190002249@N02/50391847878/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Episode Summary**

**Baker**

| 

**Signature: Filled Bread**

| 

**Technical Challenge: Challah**

| 

**Showstopper: 3D Bread Sculpture**  
  
---|---|---|---  
  
Agatha

| 

Raspberry pistachio couronne

| 

6th

| 

Breadwinner’s Basket  
  
Baz

| 

Mexican Mocha Babka _(not_ a couronne)

| 

10th

| 

St. Basil’s Cathedral  
  
Dev

| 

Cobblestone Chocolate bread

| 

8th

| 

Somewhere Over the Grainbow  
  
Elspeth

| 

Sweet Stuffed Sugar Skull

| 

3rd

| 

A Cauldron Full of Bubbling Bread  
  
Minos

| 

Baklava Babka

| 

7th

| 

Great Wheat Shark  
  
Niall

| 

Chocolate Hazelnut Twisty Bread

| 

9th

| 

You Know Nothing, John Dough  
  
Penelope

| 

Indian Classics Star Bread

| 

5th

| 

Col-dough-sseum  
  
Shepard

| 

Favourite Taco Buns (Pineapple Pulled Pork)

| 

4th

| 

Cornbread the Thanksgiving Turkey  
  
Simon*

| 

Breadward Buntacles the Tear and Share Squid

| 

1st

| 

Singing Ringing Tree Bread  
  
Trixie

| 

Welsh Cheese Night Bread

| 

2nd

| 

Flour Power Roses  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recipes**  
>  \- [Chorizo & Manchego stuffed bread,](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/steven-stuffed-smoked-paprika-loaf/) though unfortunately not shaped like a cute squid.  
> \- [Chocolate cinnamon babka](https://bromabakery.com/cinnamon-chocolate-babka/)  
> \- [Mexican hot chocolate babka](https://www.nurturedtable.com/dessert/mexican-hot-chocolate-babka/)  
> \- [Pulled Pork Tacos with Pineapple Slaw](https://www.delish.com/cooking/recipe-ideas/recipes/a46601/pulled-pork-tacos-with-pineapple-slaw-recipe/)  
> → the best ever taco that Shep is referring to is actually one I had at [Bodega in Miami ](https://www.bodegataqueria.com/)and it’s the tacos al pastor and I think about it all the damn time  
> \- [Pulled Pork Stuffed Milk Buns](https://tasty.co/recipe/pulled-pork-stuffed-milk-buns): Probably more similar to Shep's creation  
> \- [Michael’s Keralan Star Bread, S10.](https://thegreatbritishbakeoff.co.uk/recipes/all/michael-keralan-star-bread/) Not that similar to Penny’s except in shape, but it’s a gorgeous and delicious-sounding bread.  
> \- [Inspiration for Dev's Cobbled Loaf](https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/cobbled_loaf_02891)  
> \- [Baklava Babka (Minos)](https://smittenkitchen.com/2018/12/baklava-babka/): I’m sure it’s delicious IRL but he didn’t execute it quite right  
> \- [Raspberry pistachio wreath (Agatha) ](https://recipecenter.stopandshop.com/recipes/94558/raspberry-and-pistachio-breakfast-wreath)  
> \- [Chocolate hazelnut tear and share (Niall) ](https://www.deliciousmagazine.co.uk/recipes/richard-bertinets-chocolate-and-hazelnut-sharing-loaf/)  
> \- [Challah Recipe ](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-challah-bread-181004)
> 
> **References/Links**  
>  \- Read more about the medieval life of the Colosseum [here.](https://www.medievalists.net/2014/06/medieval-life-colosseum/)  
> \- Read more about the rats that got put on trial [here.](https://www.thevintagenews.com/2019/02/18/rats/#:~:text=The%20trial%20allegedly%20took%20place,rats%20of%20Autun%2C%20in%20France.)  
> \- [Singing Ringing Tree](https://www.ststworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/Singing_Ringing_Tree-1280x720.jpg): this is where the Humdrum teleports Penny and Simon end of 7th year  
> \- [St. Basil's Cathedral, Moscow ](https://www.tripsavvy.com/thmb/BUgPV3ApGz7_b4xv8s33OQUdKig=/2418x2418/smart/filters:no_upscale\(\)/StBasils1WEB-7aa7f101e0e84574bdb6bf1c4246fcdf.jpg)


End file.
